Bricks & Water
by Laura's-eyes
Summary: When John realizes that a life on the road is affecting an asthmatic Dean's health. He decides to try and give them a 'Normal family life' but nothing is ever that simple. Hurt!sick!Dean - Hurt!limp!Sam Dean 16, Sam 12.
1. Chapter 1

**Bricks and water **

**one**

**By: Laura's eyes**

**A father carries pictures where his money used to be.**

"Come on, boys! Move it!" John Winchester's demanding voice bawled through the clashing wind and rain to his two children. They had been running laps around the spacious, muddy park for the passed half hour.

"Pick up the pace, guys!" he roared, jerking the collar of his leather jacket securely around his neck in an attempt to avert off the nipping cold. For a moment, he felt guilty when he gazed towards his boys, who were both clothed in shorts and t-shirts despite the bad weather albeit the moment was gone as astutely as it came. This was for their own benefit, they had to build up their stamina and master how to cope in all weather conditions, in the worst of circumstances, if they were to survive for any extent of time in the world of hunting. They were old enough now to watch each others backs while on a job. John just needed to make sure they were equipped both mentally and physically for every conceivability. If that defined making them run sprints at 6am on a chilling cold January morning, then so be it. He was not going to be bagging any 'Father Of The Year' awards any time soon, but since it helped prime his children for the battle ahead, then he was willing to be the bad guy. The ex-marine cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered in his uppermost drill sergeant voice again.

"You're friggin' juveniles, not pensioners! Dean, what the hell's with you today? You'd be running a helluva lot faster if a spirit was at your ass! Speed it up!"

Dean glowered at his father's words because that was precisely how he felt - like a damn eighty-year-old. Better still, an eighty-year-old on a sixty-a-day smoking habit. He was not sure how much farther he could go. His lungs wrenched as what felt like tight elastic bands hindered his capability to breathe, making it impossible to draw in a full-fledged breath. His heart thumped boisterously in his ears in addition his lips and hands had begun to tingle. _God, do not do this now!_ He inwardly pleaded with his own body. He knew he was in trouble, though, and had no other alternative but to slow down, regardless of his father's goading yells.

Sam had slowed his pace to equal his brothers. He had sensed Dean begin to trail behind and now he was more than worried when he heard the frequent smothered wheezes erupting from his brothers chest. Dean looked like a fish out of water, his mouth wide agape as he gasped for air. He had given up trying to breathe through his nose a few laps ago. The sixteen-year-olds shoulders were hoisting in sync with his heaving chest as he inhaled, as if it would somehow help him fill his taut lungs just a little more. No matter how hard he tried, though, he was just not absorbing adequate oxygen. The act of trying to suck air through a crushed straw came to mind as Dean listened to the raspy sounds soaring from deep in his chest. He was loosing his focus and really starting to panic. Instinctively, his hand went to his shorts pocket, he let out a feeble groan as he discovered that what he was looking for was not there. _Shit, shit, shit, this is not good_. Unable to go any farther, he staggered to a halt, narrowly averting a face planting incident. His sneakers sank into the sloppy, drenched grass as he leaned forward, resting his hands on his thighs. He had hoped that surrendering would help, but it didn't. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the arduous chore of drawing air. Now would be an excellent time for the ground to open and devour him, displaying weakness was just not an option for Dean Winchester.

"Dean!" Sam skidded to his brothers side.

John scowled when he glanced up to see that his sons had stopped running. Squinting through the drizzly rain, he could see Dean hunched forward and Sam rubbing his hand up and down his back.

"DAD!" his youngest shrieked, frantically waiving his father over.

John took off across the slimy park as quick as his feet would take him. He could hear Dean's wheezing before he reached them.

"Dad, help him!" Sam begged, not leaving his brother's side. He persisted to rub Dean's back in a consoling rhythm. Bile climbed in his throat as he felt the grumbles and crackles in his brother's lungs drone underneath his hand.

"Dean, son, look at me," John said calmingly as he hunched down in front of his boy, pushing him down onto the moist earth, worried he'd collapse. When Dean was securely on his butt, John laid his hand on the back of his neck and slowly eased his head down towards his knees.

"What's goin' on?" he asked. Keeping his hand on the young hunters neck, he began massaging it in a pacifying motion. Sam's eyebrows tethered into a glower at his father's question. It was pretty damn clear what was wrong. John felt his panic climb a few degrees. The ear-piercing wheeze and the disturbing sounds coming from his eldest boys chest was more than alarming him, and John Winchester did not frighten easily. If the single father had not been so horrified, he would have fathomed it was a sound he had heard coming from his first-born many times before. Dean pressed a hand against his sternum and canted his head back, bowing his back and opening his mouth wide. He was trying with all his strength to fill his demanding lungs.

"I can't...c-can't...catch m-my breath...my...m-my chest's too…... t-tight..." he wheezed out among coughs and gasps, before crumbling into yet another laborious coughing fit. The force of the coughing was so bad Sam was certain his brother was about to throw up. Just then everything crashed into place for John.

"Jesus, Dad! Do something! He can't breathe!" Sam yelled frantically, running a grubby hand through his drenched locks and simultaneously painting his forehead with mud. "He needed his inhaler like ten minutes ago!" the pale twelve-year-old screeched. _Was his dad a absolute fucking dimwit?_

Evidently, John had been the only one to overlook the fact that Dean's asthmatic. His stomach pirouetted. It had been awhile since Dean had suffered from a critical asthma attack. There had been a few minor ones over the passed year and a couple of occurrences when he had required a breathing treatment at hospital when his inhaler failed to help, but usually, he had been fine. Dean did not have an inhaler handy on account of John having not renewing his repeat prescription. He hadn't thought he had needed to. Dean had never mentioned it, so he had just presumed he would be okay. Dean was always okay. Maybe this time John had presumed wrong.

"Oh no, no, no no, Dad, look at his mouth!" Sam exclaimed, bounding up and down on the spot in a panic. _Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God!!_

John's eyes were fixed on his eldest child. Dean's upper lip had taken on a tinge of azure blue, in addition his eyes had commenced to roll in his head. John hurdled forward as the teenagers body began to go listless. He clocked that the wheezing had alleviated, however John understood from experience that it was not because Dean was improving - it was because he was getting worse. The awful wheezing ensued with tightening of the airways, the absence of the caterwauling whistles alerted that no oxygen at all was getting into Dean's lungs.

"No, Dean! Stay with me, buddy don't you dare give up Dean!" he growled, scooping his lifeless son up into his arms. "Take a deep breath for me, Dean _now_ dammit!" he demanded watching his boys chest heave forcibly, trying with all he had to remain composed. This was all his fault. "That's it m'boy. Again, Dean. Come on dude, you can't let a little asthma get you down, come on son breathe!" John whispered into Dean's ear as he took off across the park towards the Impala.

_Please God let him be okay, please God let him be okay, please God let him be okay_... Sam urged over and over again in his head as he ran behind his father.

Tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter Two_

_**It kills you to see them grow up. But I guess it would kill you quicker if they didn't. **_

Sam Winchester ran as fast as his 12-year-old, gangly legs would carry him. He bolted through the electric doors of St. Michael's Emergency Department, screaming for someone to help them.

John followed not far behind, grunting with the exertion of cradling his lifeless son in his arms. Dean wasn't overweight by any means - in fact, much to his annoyance, he was small for his age. The eldest Winchester brother was often mistaken for much younger than his sixteen years.

Although he was shorter than most kids his age, Dean's body was well built and muscular. He took pride in his physique; after all, his body was his temple. Sam had rolled his eyes on many occasions as his brother stood in front of a grubby motel mirror admiring his own biceps. Yep, Dean was a good-looking guy and he knew it.

The emergency room was buzzing with activity. Bloodied and bruised people filled the waiting area. Nurses and doctors rushed around tending to various patients. There were two police officers wrestling a man to the ground and cuffing him, while a woman behind one of the cops screeched out a barrage of insults as she attempted to bash him to death with her handbag. There was a baby girl screeching at the top of her lungs while her mother tried in vain to calm her.

Amongst all this chaos, no one batted an eye at Sam's panicked cries for help.

John rushed past his youngest son as fast as he could and made his way to the nurses' station.

"I need help! Now!" the frantic father snapped at the middle-aged nurse seated behind the large reception desk. She was typing rapidly as she spoke on the phone. Sam's glance at the name tag attached to her light blue scrubs told him that her name was Wendy.

"Move it, lady! My boy can't fuckin' breathe!" John yelled.

_What the hell was wrong with these people? _John thought incredulously, close to breaking point. He wondered how hard a human heart would have to pound before it finally succumbed to cardiac arrest.

The heavy-set, auburn-haired nurse took one look at Dean's bluish pallor and the amount of effort it was taking for him to draw air and jumped from her seat. She was at John side in seconds, calling to her colleagues for immediate assistance.

A gurney appeared and Wendy, along with an older, male nurse, tugged Dean from his father's protective grip. John felt sick as he watched his boy's head flop listlessly onto the bed.

John flinched when a young man wearing a white coat and sporting a dark green stethoscope around his neck brushed past him and leaned forward, tilting Dean's head to the side and checking his pulse. By now, the strangled wheezes of his breathing could barely be heard.

"He's hardly moving any air. Trauma one," he ordered.

"What happened?" the doctor asked John while helping to push the gurney down the large hallway. The kid was in a bad way.

"He was running...and, uh...it's his asthma," John's voice was shaking along with his hands. This was not like him. He didn't panic like this.

"Are you his father?" the young man asked as they pushed through the large trauma doors.

John nodded, putting a hand on Sam's shoulder and moving him aside as they manoeuvred Dean from the gurney to a bed.

John wasn't sure this guy was old enough to be a doctor; the male nurse had more than a few years on him.

"I'm Dr. Chambers but you can call me Jett, and this is Tony and Wendy," the doctor announced.

"Tony, get him on 100 per cent O2, please. What's his name?" Jett asked the frantic father. Usually he addressed his patients personally, but Dean was in too much distress to answer his questions, all of the teenagers attention and energy focused on breathing.

Both nurses started fussing around their patient. Tony placed a clear plastic mask over the teens nose and mouth before turning the nozzle on the wall behind Dean's head, sending a rush of pure oxygen through the mask with an audible hiss. As soon as the fresh air hit Dean's tired lungs he started to cough. He was becoming more anxious with each passing minute. _Why the hell is this so bad? Why is it getting worse? _Dean knew that freaking out wasn't helping, but staying calm was easier said than done when you could barely breathe.

Wendy cut open Dean's new Metallica t-shirt. It was soaking wet and clinging to his skin, thanks to the rain. The black and white tee had been a birthday present from Caleb not even a week ago. Couldn't she have just pulled it over my freakin' head? Caleb's gonna be pissed! Dean thought, despite his distress.

The trauma nurse slipped a pulse ox clip onto his right index finger and then began attaching electrodes to his chest. Soon the erratic beeping of his heartbeat filled the room.

Dean had been in plenty of ERs before courtesy of hunting injuries and his asthma, so he was familiar with the medical equipment. He had just never felt this bad before. He was exhausted from the effort it was taking to breathe and he wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on. Not only was he scared, he knew Sam would be terrified seeing him like this.

"His name's Dean," Sam blurted out before his dad had a chance to speak. The 12-year-old immediately cringed when he saw the scowl plastered on his father's face.

Sam hadn't been sure if they would be using fake insurance or not. He had blurted out his brother's name without thinking and if the frustrated look on John's face was anything to go by, then he had just made a mistake. Sam's guess was that the plan had been to use the fake insurance, in which Dean would have in fact been Gunther Trumpman - one of Dean's own name choices.

"How old is Dean?" Dr. Chambers asked as he pressed his stethoscope to the young hunters heaving chest before gripping him under his arm and leaning him forward to listen to his lungs through his back.

"He just turned sixteen," John answered, staring at his first-born son. Dean was growing more listless by the second and his eyelids where now at half mast. _How the hell could he go downhill so fast? He was fine this morning... wasn't he?_

"It was his birthday last Tuesday," Sam's quivering voice added. Even though he was sure it wasn't a fact the doctor needed to know, Sam wanted to tell him anyway.

Dr. Chambers flashed a smile at the anxious boy, who was standing by his father shaking slightly in his sopping wet clothes.

"Get the kid a blanket, would you, Wendy?" Dr. Chambers addressed the nurse, who was finishing up inserting an IV in the back of Dean's hand.

"Tony we need to get him on an albuterol nebulizer. I'm not sure it's gonna do him much good at this point, though, since his lungs are so tight. He's gonna need IV steroids to get those airways opened up. Is Dean allergic to anything?" he asked, glancing over at John.

"Penicillin," the hunter answered, feeling helpless. He hated having to stand by and watch his son suffer. The doctor nodded as he removed the oxygen mask from Dean's face and replaced it with the hissing nebulizer.

"Push through an amp of epi."

Dean seemed to relax almost immediately and let his heavy eyelids close completely when he felt the white mist blow deep into his lungs. _Finally! About time! _he rejoiced inwardly, knowing the medicine would help him.

Normally, Dean would have been embarrassed by being the centre of attention, but right now all he was interested in was being able to breathe easier.

"He's got a bad allergy to bee stings, too," Sam piped up, once again not sure if that piece of knowledge was appropriate, but voicing it anyway.

Jett Chambers turned to Wendy, who was wrapping a large blanket around Sam's shoulders.

"Wendy, can you get me an arterial blood gas? We need to keep a close eye on his stats. I'm not happy with how tired he's getting. He's really struggling here."

The doctor placed the palm of his hand on Dean's bare chest and started rubbing in smooth circles, to try and calm his young patient while he glanced at the pulse oximeter.

"Try to take the biggest, deepest breaths you can for me, bud," he coached. Dean's eyes were rolling back as he fought to stay conscious. "We need to see that number rise four or five notches."

Dean closed his eyes and tried to comply. He liked Dr. Chambers. Usually, doctors freaked him out, but not this guy. He seemed - cool. He helped him relax.

"Let's get him out of these wet clothes A-SAP." Tony immediately started untying Dean's muddy sneakers.

"Do you know what triggered this attack?" Dr. Chambers asked, directing his question at John.

"He did!" Sam snapped, stabbing his index finger in his father's direction. "It's all his fault, making us run stupid laps in the friggin' rain! Dean was tired, but he just kept pushing and pushing!"

"Sammy..(cough) (cough)...don't..(cough) (cough)…" Dean struggled to talk through the foggy mask. He wanted to stop the massive argument he knew was about to erupt, but he was getting nowhere. He attempted to remove the nebulizer so that he could be heard, but was stopped by a firm grip on his wrist.

"Woah, Dean, you don't wanna do that just yet. I need you to chill out for me okay? I know it's easy for me to say, but stressing out isn't gonna help your breathing. So just try to take slow, deep breaths and relax for me, all right?" Dr. Chambers soothed, making sure the nebulizer was securely in place and patting Dean's shoulder reassuringly.

He glanced at the monitor, still not happy with his young patients oxygen levels. He was concerned by the way the flesh between Dean's ribs and sternum was drawing in with each difficult inhalation. He gave a sigh at how much effort it was taking for the kid to breathe. If he went on like this much longer he would need to intervene and take over Dean's breathing for him with the aid of a machine.

"Has Dean ever needed to be placed on a ventilator due to his asthma?" Dr. Chambers quizzed.

John felt the walls around him draw closer. _Why is he asking that? It's not that serious, is it?_

"Yeah, when he was twelve. He had bronchitis really bad. He had two rounds of antibiotics but it just refused to clear up. He ended up in the hospital after a severe attack and they had to put him on a vent for four days." John shuddered at the memory.

What he neglected to mention to the young doctor was that along with the bronchitis, Dean had been involved in the hunting of a poltergeist in Nevada on the night of his attack. The haunted barn caught fire, with Sam trapped inside. John was knocked unconscious, so Dean ran into the smoke and flames to rescue his little brother, managing to get them both to safety. Unfortunately,the smoke had badly affected Dean's sensitive lungs, setting his asthma off and leading to the severe attack. By the time the medics got him to the hospital, he was already in respiratory arrest.

Sam snarled at his father's half truth. He was sick of them paying for their father's mistakes. When was it going to end?

"How's his health usually?" Dr. Chambers asked, prodding deeper. His instincts told him that there was more to this family than met the eye.

"Fine, his chest was really bad when he was younger, but not so much now. He keeps himself in shape, exercises everyday, plays soccer, gets plenty of fresh air. His asthma usually only flares up when he's around smoke, dust, animals, pollen, that kind of thing. Or when the weathers cold and damp, or he's stressed or sick or..." As John went on he realized that a lot of things did affect Dean's asthma. He just hadn't noticed before. Or maybe he had noticed and just didn't want to believe it was becoming a problem.

"What regular medication is he on?" The question slammed into John like a ton of bricks. _This __is__ my fault. If I had renewed his prescription for his inhalers, he wouldn't be in this state now._

"Albuterol and asmanex, but he hasn't been taking anything for a while," John mumbled sheepishly. There was no point denying it. He was the world's worst father, period.

"Sorry, come again?" the doctor asked, walking away from Dean's bedside towards the anxious father. He frowned and folded his arms, waiting for an answer. "So you're saying Dean hasn't been using any Inhalants at all?"

"He's been doing okay the last year, he only had a coupla off days. He didn't need them," John stated. He'd be lucky if the doctor didn't suspect him of child neglect and call in Social Services.

"Pfft! Shows how much you know," Sam growled under his breath. Both John and the doctor heard him, but neither said anything.

"I thought he'd probably grown out of it," John felt about the size of a pea at that very moment. _What the fuck was I thinking? Mary would be livid!_

"Mr…?"

"Winchester. John Winchester."

"Mr. Winchester, I can't stress how important it is for asthmatics to have an inhaler handy at all times. Dean really shouldn't have been taken off his meds unless instructed to do so by a qualified physician," Jett said sternly. He may have been young, but he knew his stuff.

John nodded. There was nothing else he could do.

"Look, you really shouldn't be in here. Take your other son and you can wait in the family room. Don't worry, we'll take good care of him," he assured the worried father. John nodded and glanced toward the two nurses hovering around his eldest.

"No way! I wanna stay with Dean," Sam whined. His brother needed him.

"Can it, Sammy," John snapped. The last thing he needed was Sam acting up.

Dr. Chambers walked towards youngest Winchester and placed a hand on his trembling shoulder, giving it a small squeeze and totally ignoring the fuming father at his side. He had taken a disliking to John Winchester.

"Listen, kid. We need some space in here to take care of your brother. He's getting himself upset because he knows you're worried about him. You have to get out of those wet clothes and get something hot to drink, okay?"

Sam nodded. He liked this guy, trusted him.

"I'll come and get you and your dad in a bit, all right?"

"Okay," Sam relented as he shuffled off behind his father.

--

John took a moment's rest from pacing up and down the small room to look up at the large silver clock situated on the pale green wall; it had been over an hour and a half, and still no news on Dean.

"Why is it taking so long, Dad? Do you think he's gonna be all right?" Sam mumbled sheepishly from the sofa he was sitting on in the corner of the tiny room. A nursing assistant had given him a pair of oversized scrubs to change into and he cradled a plastic cup filled with once-steaming hot chocolate, thanks to his dad's trip to the vending machine down the hall.

"Of course he will be. This is Dean we're talking about. He's always fine."

John wondered if he was saying that more to convince himself or his son.

"He wasn't fine this morning," the teen sighed, sitting the plastic cup down on the small table. He couldn't trust his stomach to keep the chocolaty drink down.

"What do you mean Sammy?" John felt his anxiety increase. Had he missed something?

"He didn't sleep at all last night, Dad. He spent the whole time coughing up his lungs! I told him I was going to get you and he begged me not to. He was convinced you'd just think he was faking to get out of training," Sam said accusingly.

Sam's words cut through John like a knife. He should have known Dean wasn't well when he appeared in the kitchen that morning after he had ordered them out of bed. His eldest had stood pale-faced in front of him, with the tell-tale dark rings around his eyes that he always sported when he was ill. John cringed when he remembered hearing the muffled coughs coming from his boys room. At the time, he had thought nothing of it.

"Dammit! He should have said something!"

"So, what? You're saying this is Dean's fault now? You know what he's like - he hates making a fuss!"

"No, I'm not saying this is his fault, Sam!" His youngest son had a knack for making him feel worse than he already did.

"It's not like it would have mattered if he told you he wasn't feeling up to it! You'd just order him to suck it up, like your always telling us to do!" Sam stood up, his anger reaching the boiling point. He was torn between screaming at his father and bursting into tears; neither option was pleasant.

"Sam..." John started. He could tell his son's emotions were getting the better of him; this was when the 12-year-old either exploded with rage or crumbled under the stress. John preferred the rage.

"No, Dad! It's about time you listened to what I've got to say for a change!" Sam growled, tightening his fists at his side in anger, his nostrils flaring. If his jaw clenched any tighter, he would be in serious danger of cracking his back molars. John was stunned at the pure venom dripping from each word.

"This has to stop! We're not your damn soldiers! If you had filled Dean's prescription in the first place, instead of only caring about hunting all the time, then we wouldn't be sitting here right now while he's in their fighting to breathe!" What was it going to take to make his father see what he was doing to them? This revenge he was dead set on getting for their mother's death was tearing them apart.

"I've had enough, Dad, and I'm pretty sure Dean has, too, even though he'd never admit it because he'd be afraid of disappointing you! I mean, c'mon, Dad, we both know he worships the ground you walk on and obeys every damn order you give us! And what does he get in return - a big, fat nothing! When is all this going to end, huh? When it's too late? When one of us has been pushed too far, or when one of the things we hunt gets to us first, 'cause it's only a matter of time!"

Sam dropped his head into his hands, deflated. Tears running down his face as he closed his eyes. All he wanted was for Dean to be all right, for them to live a regular everyday life; was that too much to ask?

John stood gob smacked at his son's outburst. His heart ached to see Sam so distraught. What the hell was he doing to his family?

Before John could speak, the door swung open and Dr. Chambers entered, closing the door quietly behind him.

"How's my boy doing, Doc?" John swallowed hard, terrified of the answer. Sam stood as soon as he heard the door open, frantically wiping at his tear-streaked cheeks.

"Dean is responding well to treatment," Jett announced.

John and Sam visibly relaxed.

"His pulse oxygen levels were dangerously low when he came in and we had a bit of trouble getting the medication he needed into his lungs. We had to treat him with the steroid Prednisone and IV epinephrine to reduce the inflammation and help open up his airways enough for him to get the albutarol into his lungs. He's doing better and his pulse ox is coming up nicely. I'm going to give him another breathing treatment before he goes up to the ward," Dr. Chambers said with a smile, relieved that his patient had started to make progress. He had been more than worried for a bit when Dean wasn't getting any better.

"So you're admitting him?" John asked, remembering that they had used Dean's real name. They had no insurance and the forms the nurse had handed John earlier when she returned with a change of clothes for Sam had been abandoned on the table, blank.

"Yes. Mr. Winchester, as you are aware, Dean's attack was severe. He's lucky you got him here when you did or he would have gone into complete respiratory arrest."

Sam paled at the doctor's words.

"I ran some blood work and ordered some X-rays, which confirmed my suspicions that Dean has a chest infection. The infection, the damp weather, and the over-exertion were all triggers that resulted in his attack; the fact that they all happened at the same time simply made it more severe."

John felt sick. He was Dean's father; he was supposed to protect him, prevent things like this from happening, not contribute to them.

"Can we see him?" Sam asked.

"Sure, buddy. He's resting now, but you can go in."

Sam brushed past the doctor immediately, not waiting for his father.

Dr. Chambers continued, while John concentrated on his every word.

"We're administering IV antibiotics. I'm aware of Dean's allergy to penicillin, so he's on keflex," the doctor informed the single father when he saw John was about to interrupt.

"He has a bit of a fever, but that's to be expected due to the infection. They'll keep him on the pediatric ward upstairs for four-hourly nebulizer treatments, oxygen and observation, they will give him a prescription for oral antibiotics and a new inhaler when he's fit to leave. He'll need to follow up with your family doctor to have his asthma monitored."

John nodded, his face flushing. Neither of his children had seen a regular family doctor since before Mary died. Contact with medical personnel only occurred if there was an emergency involved, and even then, it was restricted to life-threatening ailments and injuries. Things had to change.

"Thank you for everything you've done for my son, Doctor," John said sincerely, shaking the young man's hand.

"You're welcome, Mr. Winchester, and take care of those boys," he flashed the scruffy man a genuine smile. Maybe he had judged too soon and John Winchester wasn't so bad after all.

--

"Hey, big brother, how you feeling?" Sam asked as he crept up to Dean's bedside. He was happy to see that the blue tinge had left his lips and his face had returned to his normal pallor, although still a little pale. His cheeks where flushed with pink.

Dean cleared his throat before reaching up and pulling of the hissing oxygen mask, leaving it to rest around his neck.

"Like I've... been thrown around by a possessed wrestler, then... chewed up... by a wendigo and...shit over ...a very high... cliff." His voice was hoarse and breathless, but he still managed to flash one of his thousand-watt smiles.

Sam laughed aloud. Even in his present state, he still managed to be 'Dean'.

"Where's dad?" he asked and watched as the smile faded from his little brother's face. _Great. _This was all he needed - the two people he loved most in the world tearing strips off of each other.

"He's talking' to your doctor, probably asking when you'll be well enough to get back to his vigorous training schedule," Sam snarled.

"Sammy, don't start, please," Dean pleaded. He wasn't up for this.

"He's the one who started this, Dean, not me. He was too occupied with his stupid hunts to notice you were even sick! You could have died, Dean! I can't help it if I'm not as forgiving as you."

"Samuel," Dean cringed when he heard his father's voice.

"I understand that you're upset about what happened, but I'm not going to put up with this attitude from you. Go get your clothes from the nurses station. We'll stay in the motel down the street and pick your brother up in the morning," John said, trying to be reasonable with his teenage son. Sam didn't move. Dean let out a long suffering sigh.

"That's an order Samuel," John ground out. Why did he always have to be so damn difficult?

"Yes, sir," Sam snapped, storming from the room and slamming the door behind him.

John took a deep breath and rubbed his hand over his growing stubble.

"He's just upset dad," Dean tried. He hated when they fought like this. He was always stuck in the middle, pulled in two directions. He wondered if he'd one day snap.

"He's right, though, Dean; it's my fault," John admitted moving closer to Dean's bed. "I'm your father. I'm supposed to look after you, make sure you're safe from harm, but most of the time I'm leading you and your brother smack-bang into the middle of danger."

John felt tears begin to sting at his eyes and a lump form in his throat.

Dean swallowed hard. This wasn't like his dad to show emotion and open up like this, and it scared him.

"I though I was gonna lose you today Dean. I really did." John's voice cracked and he fought with all he had to not break down right there on the spot.

"Hey, I'm not going anywhere any time soon," Dean croaked, fighting with his own emotions.

"You know it's gonna take a lot more than freakin' asthma to take out the great Dean Winchester," he joked, once again flashing that heart melting grin.

John couldn't help but chuckle.

"I called Jim and Marla. We're gonna go and stay for a while," John announced.

"Great," Dean rolled his eyes. "Auntie M can mollycoddle us to death."

John laughed out loud this time.

"You can't fool me, dude. I know you love her fussing."

"Yeah, well, nobody needs to know that. You'll ruin my bad ass image," Dean smiled again, looking forward to seeing the pastor and his wife. The Murphy residence was the only place he'd ever been able to call home since his mom died.

"Hopefully, going to the Murphy's will put a smile on your brother's face," John sighed. He was praying that taking some time out at his oldest friend's would give him a chance to spend some quality time with his youngest son.

"Dad, the house has its very own library. Geek boy will be in heaven."


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter Three_

_**By the time a man realizes that maybe his father was right, he usually has a son who thinks he's wrong.** _

To say that the Winchesters had endured a very long and extremely stressful day was putting it mildly.

John and Sam stayed at the hospital until just after 9:30pm. The anxious father had ensured that his eldest son was settled in the pediatric respiratory care ward before leaving for the motel with his youngest.

Dr. Moltisanti was now in charge of Dean's care, she had informed them that he would be kept on the IV antibiotics until morning. He would also be given more breathing treatments and oxygen throughout the night.

Dean had tried and failed to convince his father to let him sign out AMA. John had told him straight up that it wasn't going to happen, despite Dean's claims that he was feeling better, and had ordered him to get some rest. A nurse came around to administer another nebulizer treatment and Dean had drifted off to sleep mid-conversation, the mask on his face fogging up with the medication that was helping keep his airways and tight lungs open. It reminded John of the times when Dean was younger, when he sat up at night cradling his wheezing toddler in his arms as he fought for breath. The young hunter's body was exhausted from the day's events.

When John noticed his youngest nodding off in the very uncomfortable plastic chair he decided it was time to leave. After triple-checking that the nurses had his cell number and nearly an hour of reasoning with his youngest son, he finally managed to pry Sammy from his big brother's bedside.

Sam was adamant that he wasn't speaking to his father unless it was absolutely necessary.

On the way to the motel, John stopped and sent him into a small pizza parlor to get them something to eat. He didn't have to tell his son twice. Sam snagged the cash from his father's firm grip and bolted from the car; to say the 12-year-old was hungry had to be the understatement of the century.

Sam huffed and slammed the car door when they arrived at the run-down motel. He was still pissed at his dad and wanted to make sure he knew it. Once inside, they ate their pizza and drank their Cokes in awkward silence before retiring to the single beds. They were both exhausted from the day's high drama, so neither Winchester bothered to shower before turning in for the night.

John woke early the next morning. A quick glance at his watch through blurry eyes told him it was 7:30. He had slept an hour and a half longer than he usually did, which he attributed to the fact that he'd been awake half the night mulling over his failures as a father.

"I left you some hot water," Sam mumbled as he opened the bathroom door, hair still wet and wearing nothing but a blue, starchy motel towel around his waist.

John was a bit taken aback that his youngest son had actually spoken to him. Usually when Sam was angry with him, he could go for days without a single word. His youngest definitely took after him when it came to being stubborn.

"Thanks, son," John smiled, getting up. His bones cracked with the sudden movement, reminding him that he wasn't getting any younger.

"When are we going to the hospital?" the teen replied, his tone neutral as he searched through his backpack for clean clothes. He couldn't even remember the last time they visited a laundry mat. He made a mental note to take Dean some clean clothes to change into.

"As soon as I'm showered. Listen, son -."

Sam threw out his hand to stop him from going any further. He didn't want to hear his damn excuses. Dean could have died yesterday; there was nothing his father could say to change that fact. Sam's patience was almost non-existent, anyway. A mere two hours of sleep tended to make him more than a little cranky.

"Dad, can you just leave it, please! I don't wanna get into this." Sam had decided he would be civil to his father, if only for his brother's sake. Dean really could do without the extra stress. Hell, they all could.

"Sammy, I..." John wanted to make him understand that everything he did was for their own good, but sometimes it didn't work out that way. He fucked up, and he wasn't ashamed to admit it. It just saddened and angered him that it took one of kids being hospitalized for him to see sense.

"Can we just forget it, Dad? Please?" Sam pleaded. All he wanted was to get to the hospital and make sure his brother was okay.

John nodded before heading off to the small bathroom. The first chance he got, he was going to have a long chat with his boy, whether he liked it or not. They couldn't keep going on like this. Something had to give.

--

When they entered the room, Dean was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, clad only in his boxers with his legs dangling like a five-year-old's. John noted that he was still pale and the bruised appearance under his eyes was still visible. The IV was gone, the only evidence that it had ever been there was the small Band-Aid on the back of Dean's hand. An oxygen mask was resting on his pillow, blowing air out into the room with an annoyingly loud hiss. Dean sent the piece of equipment a glare when he saw his father eyeing it as he sat down in the chair beside his bed. Dean thought his father and brother looked as exhausted as he felt.

"Do you two know what time it is? I've been up for hours!" Dean snapped, his voice husky. A tired Dean was a grumpy Dean.

"How you feelin', dude?" John asked. He doubted he would get the truth.

"Like I'm ready to blow this germ-infested hell-hole. I've been poked and prodded all freakin' night!"

Sam smiled as he plopped himself down beside Dean, finally allowing himself to relax. It was good to hear his brother bitching and complaining in his usual manner.

"One minute they're tellin' me to go to sleep, the next they're waking me up, making me breathe into a peak flow meter a good few hundred times, and stickin' me with big-ass needles to get a blood gas! I mean, what the hell am I, a pin cushion?" Dean moaned. "I've been stuck with so many needles I'm scared to drink in case I start leaking all over the place!"

Dean was still bitching when Dr. Moltisanti entered the room, her patient's file in her arms.

"So how is my handsome patient feeling this morning?"

"Great, when can I leave?" the 16-year-old grinned, snaking a quick glance at her cleavage as she leaned forward slightly to retrieve her stethoscope from her petite shoulders.

"That depends. How's your chest this morning?" she asked. A warning glance from John was enough to have him tell the truth.

"Still a little tight," he admitted at barely a whisper. No point in lying. She would be able to tell when she listened to his lungs, anyway.

Dr. Moltisanti pressed the instrument to her young patient's back. Dean shivered as the cold disk touched his skin, sending goosebumps across his body.

"Big, deep breath in," she instructed.

As Dean complied, a slight whistle could clearly be heard throughout the room and a strange croaking noise escaped from his throat. He cringed. There was no way he was staying another night.

"And again."

He coughed into his fist with the effort as the doctor continued to listen to the sounds coming from his lungs.

"I'm still concerned with the severity of that wheeze, but it's much better than it was. There's still some congestion, particularly in your right lung, but that's to be expected with the infection. The antibiotics should clear that up. The more you cough the better; it'll help clear out your tubes."

Dean nodded. He knew the drill. He and chest infections where old pals.

Dr. Moltisanti then asked him to blow into the peak flow meter three times. He did as she requested but was so breathless afterwards that he had to take a hit of the inhaler he'd been given earlier.

"Your peak flow reading is better than it was," the doctor smiled, writing something in Dean's chart.

"So I can leave?" Dean's voice was filled with hope.

The doctor looked at him for a long moment, as if contemplating her answer.

"Yes, Dean. You can leave," she finally answered.

"Thank God!" Dean exploded, his mood immediately much brighter.

"As long as you promise to take care of yourself," she warned. "Take it easy for a couple of days and make sure you take the full course of antibiotics, and you better make good use of that," she ordered, pointing to the blue inhaler that was still in Dean's hand.

"If you start feeling wheezy, short of breath or tight-chested, you use it. Don't try to act the big man, Dean. Ignoring your asthma will only put your life at risk."

Dean glared at her. Dramatic much?

"Oh, don't worry! I'll make sure he takes care of himself," John said.

"Yeah, right."

Sam couldn't stop the remark - it was choking him. It earned him a look from both his father and brother.

Dr. Moltisanti raised an eyebrow, aware that she had missed something but feeling that it was something that didn't involve her. She chose to ignore it.

"I'm serious, Dean. We need to get your asthma under control and we can't do that if you refuse to take care of yourself."

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, rolling his eyes. "I got it."

"Good. Your release papers and prescriptions for an inhaler, the antibiotics, and some cough medicine are at the nurses station. You can fill the prescription at the hospital pharmacy on the first floor. I want to see you in a week to make sure that chest infection is clearing up, all right?"

I don't think so, lady. Dean had just opened his mouth to tell her that she was blowing things way out of proportion when his father spoke.

"I'll set up the appointment before we leave," John promised. Dean barely stopped his jaw from dropping to the floor. His father had turned to the dark side.

"Keep track of how he does for the next couple of weeks. It looks like we need to put him on some additional preventive meds for the asthma," she added, addressing John.

When she left, Dean stood up.

"So where are my clothes? I'm gonna go crazy if I don't get out of here!"

John could have kicked himself. How the hell did he forget to bring Dean a change of clothes? Mary would be so disappointed in him. Not only did he forget the important things like his eldest child's serious medical condition, he couldn't even be trusted to do normal, every day, care-for-your-kids things.

"Here," Sam said, picking his backpack up off the floor and tossing it to Dean, who didn't miss the accusing glare his little brother shot at their dad.

"I'm gonna go get those prescriptions and sign you out of here, make sure you wrap up warm Dean." John said hurriedly, excusing himself from the room in short order. He couldn't stand himself right now; how were his sons going to feel?

Dean pulled his jeans on and glanced over at Sam, who was slouched in a chair with his arms folded across his chest, silently brooding.

Dean sighed. He was getting tired of playing the peacemaker all the time. Why couldn't they just get along? It wasn't like they had any other family to fall back on if this one broke up.

"Sam, let it go. It's no big deal. I'm fine."

"It is a big deal! You almost died because Dad forgot you have asthma – how does that even happen?" Sam answered incredulously. "He can't even remember to bring you clothes, Dean! And you're not even upset about any of it!"

If only you knew, little brother.

"Sam, I'm really tired and I just want to get out of here. Can we do this some other time?" Dean sighed, pulling his t-shirt over his head.

Sam reluctantly held his tongue and went back to brooding. Dean finished dressing in silence. At least in the Impala, he could turn on the radio.

--

John gripped the steering wheel tightly, guilt slowly curdling in his gut and making him feel physically sick as he mulled over the recent events. Somewhere down the line, he had stopped being a father to his children and had became their drill sergeant. It was something he had told himself a long time ago that he'd never let happen. He had decided at a young age that he would not be like his own father. Unfortunately, that's exactly who he'd become.

He had some serious making-up to do. He just hoped he wasn't too late.

Bob Dylan's soulful voice hummed quietly in the background, filling the awkward silence of the car with lyrics. How many roads must a man walk down, before you call him a man? The music wasn't loud enough to drown out the sound of the heavy rain pelting the Impala, which only served to further depress John's already glum mood. Whenever he heard that song, it sent shivers down his spine and he wasn't entirely sure why.

Dean was riding shotgun, bundled in his thick, black hoodie and his beanie hat. John had the heating up full blast but his son still looked cold. The weather was getting worse and the Impala's heater was technically an antique.

Dean's elbow rested against the window and his head rested in his palm while he stared out at the road ahead. Every now and then, his head would dip to his chest and he'd startle himself awake. He was exhausted. Although he'd never admit it, the attack had really wiped him out.

Sam sat in the seat behind his dad, not his usual choice, but sitting on the left side made it easier to keep an eye on his brother. He had been cold so he 'borrowed' one of Dean's warm sweatshirts from his bag when he wasn't looking and had wrapped a comforter he'd snatched from the motel room around his goose-bumped legs in hope of warming himself up.

The youngest Winchesters arms were folded and he sat stick straight. Every so often, he noticed his dad glancing at him in the mirror, so he'd scowl back. If looks could kill, John Winchester would have been a dead man before they left the parking lot at St. Michael's Hospital.

"I already called Jim, so they're expecting us," John said. His gruff voice sounded strange after so long with only the music to break the silence.

"kay," Dean yawned. He had been half asleep. John never missed that he still had a rattle coming from deep in his chest.

--

As soon as the Winchester trio entered the large house, they were met with comforting warmth and a tantalizing aroma wafting from the kitchen. Dean knew right away that it was Marla's lasagna, a smile graced his face - Marla knew how much he loved it. Sam's stomach flipped and his mouth watered at the thought of the food that awaited him.

"Long time, no see, men!" Pastor Jim Murphy smiled as the three Winchesters shuffled into his large kitchen. The walk from the Impala to the house had drenched them and they left a trail of small puddles in their wake.

Dean and Sam each had an overstuffed backpack slung over their shoulders, while John held the larger duffel bag. Father Murphy new that all the material possessions the Winchester family owned were divided up into those three bags.

The three Winchesters greeted their old friend, each of them secretly glad to be 'home', as it was the only place in the entire world they could call their own – well, the Murphy residence and the Impala.

Sam had admitted to Dean a few years earlier that it was the only place he really felt safe. Dean felt the same way, even though he would never admit it to his younger sibling.

"Jim?" called a high and cheerful female voice from the living room. "Is that my boys?"

"Sure is," he called back, smiling. His wife had been flapping around the house like a headless chicken since hearing of their impending arrival. She thought of John Winchester as her own son and treated Dean and Sam no differently than her own grandchildren.

"Hey, Aunt Marla." Sam beamed as soon as the thin, sandy-haired lady centered the kitchen. She was holding a bundle of white, fluffy towels against her pink floral peani.

Marla Murphy was in her mid fifties. Her bright blue eyes and pearly white smile showed how pretty she had been in her younger years. Dean and Sam had seen the couple's wedding photos. Marla had been a real stunner in her day.

"Oh, I've missed you boys," she gushed, rushing towards the youngest Winchester. "C'mere, treacle."

The retired nurse set the towels she was holding down on the large oak table before engulfing Sam in a tight bear hug. She held him close for a long moment, taking in his scent, before planting a kiss on his mop of unruly hair. I'll convince this boy to get a haircut yet. Pulling away she turned her attention to Dean. He knew what was coming and out of habit rolled his eyes. His Auntie Marla loved to mollycoddle him when he was perfectly healthy, and after his asthma attack he figured she'd be in full blown mother-hen mode.

"Jim told me what happened, sugar. How are you feeling now? Still got a fever? You look a little flushed," she cooed, placing the palm of her soft hand on Dean's forehead before pulling him into a hug.

"I'm fine," he mumbled, his still raspy breathing telling her otherwise.

In general, Dean hated being hugged. It was just plain embarrassing for any 16-year-old, but when the hug was from Marla, he didn't mind at all. He took comfort in the familiar smell of her perfume.

"Best get you out of these wet clothes and warmed up. Last thing you need is a bout of pneumonia," she said, the nurse in her coming out in full force. Grabbing the towels from the table, she handed them out to the three thankful Winchesters. Marla was at her happiest when she had people to look after, it was just in her nature.

"It's good to see you, too, John," she grinned, reaching out to hug him. Sam and Dean never saw their father show affection to anyone apart from them, and even that was limited. But he, too, had a connection with Marla. She was the only real mother figure in their lives.

"I'm sorry to just impose on you like this, without much notice," John apologized once the small woman released him.

"Nonsense, John! You are all welcome here any time and you know it!" She sighed in exasperation, raising an eyebrow at the scruffy hunter.

John nodded. He did know it.

"Now, enough gabbing. You boys get upstairs and wash up. Supper will be ready soon," the Pastor announced, turning back to the stove he had been slaving over before his guests arrived.

"I've had a bit of a tidy up in your room, boys. Thought I'd freshen it up a bit; after all, it has been a while. Got a bit dusty up there," Marla said, addressing the boys, who were in the midst of taking off their muddy sneakers.

Dean had a fleeting thought of the porn he had stashed under his mattress the last time he was here. He had broken his collarbone falling of the back of Caleb's quad and was unable to go to school or hunt, so what else did he have to keep himself occupied for six weeks while the fracture healed? He really hoped Marla hadn't been too thorough in her cleaning spree - he wouldn't be able to look her in the eye ever again.

"There's fresh sheets on your beds."

Oh, God! Dean's face turned a deep shade of red. Awkward!

"And there's more towels in the bathroom," she added as she gathered up their wet, dirty coats.

"Now, hurry along. Shower and change, dinner will be ready soon!"

Dean and Sam both nodded before heading off upstairs. Dean had never been so happy at the thought of a shower in all his life. He desperately wanted to wash away the grime and troubles of the past two days.

"You, too, John. You're soaked to the skin!"

John grinned and followed after his boys. It was definitely good to be back.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter Four_

**There must always be a struggle between a father and son, while one aims at power and the other at independence.**

_October 1979_

_It had been a beautiful day, and had turned into an equally beautiful night. Mary Winchester stood on her porch, a glass of wine in her hand, staring dreamily at the stars scattered in the sky above. _

_Hearing laughter, she looked towards her husband, twin brother and sister in law. They were gathered around a small table, chatting and reminiscing over their high school yearbook. Mary couldn't help but smile. Life was perfect, more perfect than she had ever dreamed it could be. She had captured the heart of the man she had always loved, and he had given her the most precious baby in all the world._

"_Hey, Mary!" called her brother, Nathan, trying to stifle a laugh as John was using popcorn as missiles and his head as a target. "Check out Johnny's hair at our prom! Jesus, I forgot how high and fluffy it actually was!"_

"_Look who's talkin', Elvis!" _

_Mary giggled. It was times like this when she felt truly blessed. Life hadn't always been a bed of roses for Mary and her brother growing up, but now they both had their own families and were making their own way in the world._

_Just as she was about to take a seat, a loud, screeching wail could be heard from upstairs._

"_Looks like little Dean heard you making fun of his uncle's awesome hair!" Nathan joked, grinning._

"_I'll go," Mary smiled, sitting her glass down and brushing a kiss against John's forehead._

"_You sure?" he asked, taking a swig of his beer as he stood. "You sit and relax. I'll see to him."_

"_Nuh-uh. It's fine, honey. He's due another dose of his medicine soon, anyway. You can get up with him through the night," Mary said with a grin, rushing off to tend to her bundle of joy._

"_So, how is the little man doing?" Julie, Nathan's heavily pregnant wife asked, rubbing a hand protectively over her baby bump._

"_He's been better the past few days. Dr. Flanagan said his lungs sounded better and they're hoping to take him off the steroids next week, if his chest stays clear," John sighed sadly, taking another long gulp of his cool beer. He hated watching his baby sick; there was nothing more heartbreaking._

"_We're just praying it's not asthma, but if it is, hopefully he'll grow out of it," he added, remembering that the doctor said it was more than likely that the 10-month-old had the chronic lung disease._

"_Poor kid. When's the little guy gonna catch a break?" the concerned uncle asked, referring to Dean's health problems since birth. He was born prematurely, weighing just over two pounds after __the young couple was involved in a car accident when John overtook another car on a cold and snowy night. Ever since then, Dean had suffered with breathing difficulties due to his underdeveloped lungs and weak immune system. The green-eyed, blond-haired baby hadn't reached his first birthday yet and already they had come close to losing him on more than one occasion. John had never forgiven himself for being behind the wheel the night of the accident. He blamed himself for his son's poor health and always would._

_Mary smiled as she entered the brightly decorated nursery. _

"_Shhhh, baby, Mama's here, Mama's here, Dean," she cooed, leaning into the crib and scooping the chubby little body into her arms. Feeling his forehead with her soft hand, she was satisfied that he didn't have a fever._

"_Hey, Mama's brave little soldier. What's up, huh?" Mary soothed holding the wriggling body against her shoulder as she rubbed her hand up and down his tiny back in a comforting rhythm as she started pacing the room. When Dean continued to screech and wheeze, Mary knew what would settle her son. It had never failed yet._

"_Saw a snail chase a whale, fooba wooba, fooba wooba, saw a snail chase a whale, fooba wooba Dean_" _Mary sang as she continued to pace up and down, nursing the sobbing infant._

"_Saw a snail chase a whale, all around the water pail. Hey, Dean, ho, Dean, fooba wooba Dean." _

_The crying began to subside and Mary could feel her baby's warm croaking breaths against her neck and the occasional sob wracking his tiny body as his little fingers curled around her hair at the back of her neck._

"_Saw a frog chase a dog, Fooba wooba, Fooba wooba, Saw a frog chase a dog, Fooba wooba Dean. Saw a frog chase a dog, sitting on a hollow log. Hey, Dean, ho, Dean, Fooba wooba Dean." _

_The song was having the desired affect, just as Mary knew it would. She could feel his body grow heavier as he relaxed and began to drift off to sleep. The song, although silly, never failed to calm baby Winchester and lull him to sleep._

"_Saw a flea kick a tree, fooba wooba, fooba wooba, saw a flea kick a tree, fooba wooba Dean. Saw a flea kick a tree, fooba wooba, fooba wooba, saw a flea kick a tree, in the middle of the sea. Hey, Dean, ho, Dean, fooba wooba Dean." _

_Mary felt John creep up behind her and snake his arms around them both, running one of his large palms over Dean's wispy blond hair while planting a kiss on top of Mary's head. He wrapped his arms around his family. If only it was that simple to keep them safe from harm._

_Just when the doting mother was about to start on the next verse, her husband's low, gravelly voice beat her to it. _

_  
_"_Heard a cow say meow, fooba wooba, fooba wooba, heard a cow say meow, fooba wooba Dean. Heard a cow say meow, then I heard it say bow-wow. Hey, Dean, ho, Dean, fooba wooba Dean." _

_By the time the song had ended, Dean was asleep, harsh rasping breaths sawing in and out from his tiny, rosebud lips. Tip-toeing over to his crib, Mary lay the sleeping infant down and gently pulled his favorite blanket over his still form, placing her hand on his petite chest as it rattled and croaked with each struggled breath. John walked to the shelf at the side of Dean's crib and flicked the switch on the dehumidifier, watching as it released steam out into the atmosphere. He hoped that it would help ease some of his boy's distress._

"_He's gonna be fine, sweetheart," John whispered, moving forward and placing an arm around her slight shoulders. She was close to tears as they both stood staring at their baby boy as he slept, oblivious to their concern._

"_I promise you now, Mary. I'm never going to let anything happen to him," John vowed, reaching __over and brushing the back of his hand across Dean's rosy cheek._

"_I promise you, too, kiddo."_

--

John's eyes snapped open, trying to ascertain what had woken him. He lay unmoving in the warm, comfortable bed that smelled of fresh lavender instead of the usual stench of cigarette smoke that seemed to cling to all motel sheets. Something had woken him from his dream. It had felt too damn real: the smell of Mary's perfume, the softness of Dean's hair, all of it.

He heard a muffled cough come from the next room. Dean. The hunter shot up in bed and threw off the heavy duvet.

Being as stealthy as he could, the single father crept into his sons bedroom. The door creaked as he eased it open, but no one inside stirred. The room was partially lit by a small lamp at Sam's bedside and John smiled. His youngest was sound asleep on his back, not a single crease in his covers as he lay perfectly still with a book laid open in his lap. Moving closer, John carefully eased the book from the 12-year-old's hands. The Outsiders - Sam's favorite book. John was sure the boy had read it at least four times. John set the book down on the beside table before bending over and planting a kiss on Sam's forehead and running a hand through his wild mop of unruly hair. It wasn't very often that he was able to show his youngest son any affection. It was something he was hoping to remedy in the coming weeks.

Another cough caught his attention and he moved toward his eldest boys bed. Dean was the complete opposite of Sam in his sleeping form. He lay on his stomach, arms curled under his pillow and head turned to the side. When Dean slept, he resembled a drunken man, sprawled out limbs tangled between the sheets, his mouth always hanging open to pull in as much air as he could. At night his chest tended to be at its worst. Wheezes and rattles filled the air, interrupted by the occasional cough. John placed the palm of his hand on the snoring teens forehead to make sure his temperature hadn't risen again, swallowing with relief when he found that that it hadn't and thanking all that was holy that the antibiotics seemed to be doing their job.

Remembering what he had dreamt about, and the promise he had made to his wife and son all those years ago, John leaned forward, kissing Dean on the head and lightly whispering in his ear.

"I'm sorry, son."

John was startled when Dean replied.

"S'okay dad…" he answered, his voice slurred and thick with sleep.

--

The first week at the Murphy's was spent in peace and harmony, which was highly unusual for the Winchesters. John took the opportunity to research and try to spend as much time with his boys as he could. He'd attempted to talk to Sam on more than one occasion, but the 12-year-old made it clear that he wasn't interested. The past was the past and he just wanted to move on, but John knew it was an open wound that would continue to fester until it was remedied.

Sam was in his element living on the large ranch. He spent his days helping out Marla with the animals and his evenings in the library with Jim, reading and listening to the stories that the Pastor loved to tell.

Dean, on the other hand, was bored stiff after 24 hours. He spent the first couple of days lounging on the sofa by the fire while Marla fussed over him, and the rest off the week complaining that he was fed up and wanted to look for a hunt.

John made sure his eldest son took it easy and was constantly hovering over his shoulder asking if he was feeling okay and making sure he remembered to take his meds.

Sam was just as bad. He flapped around like an old woman if Dean so much as sniffed, or God forbid, coughed. The young hunter was going crazy with everyone treating him like he was made of glass. They were suffocating him more than his asthma was. He had much preferred it when he'd kept the severity of his disease a secret.

Dean was lying on the couch watching an episode of Jerry Springer titled '_Who's My Baby's Daddy?_' while his younger brother sat in front of the open fire, legs crossed with a large hard cover book resting on his knees.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam asked, far too cheerfully for his brother's liking.

"Hmmm?" he mumbled, flicking the channel, not really paying attention.

"Did you know that nobody knows who designed the first American flag?" the floppy-haired teen informed him.

Dean's eyebrow knitted into a deep frown as he sat up and chucked the remote onto the wooden coffee table.

"What? Why the hell would I care who designed the first American flag, you spaz?" Dean huffed. Being cooped up inside all day was giving him some serious cabin fever.

"Why do you even bother to learn these useless facts, man?" he continued, leaning forward and swiping the book from his brother's grip.

"Phfft. I mean, who the hell would want to know that..." Dean skimmed over the page, using his forefinger. "If you yelled for 8 years, 7 months and 6 days, you would have produced enough sound energy to heat one cup of coffee."

Dean raised an eyebrow. It was kinda interesting. In a geeky kinda way.

Sam looked amused as Dean's eyes continued to scan over the page.

"Holy shit!" he gasped, mouth gaping open. "Did you know that a pig's orgasm lasts for thirty minutes?"

_Lucky bastards! _Dean smirked to himself.

"No, but I do now!" Bobby laughed as he sauntered into the room, throwing his heavy parka over the back of a chair, not caring that it was dripping rainwater onto the floor, and sat himself down beside Dean on the comfortable sofa.

"I betcha didn't know that banging your head against a wall uses 150 calories an hour," the older hunter informed them.

"No, I didn't, but I'm sure Dean does," Sam quipped. "I mean, being someone who gets thrown into walls on a regular basis and all."

"Shut up, dweeb!"

"Boys," Marla called from the kitchen. "Supper's ready."

"That's our cue," Bobby said. "I don't know about you two, but I'm starving!"

--

"How long are you in town for, John?" Bobby asked as he heaped mashed potatoes onto his already full plate. Nobody on earth made mashed potatoes like Marla Murphy.

John opened his mouth to speak, but Marla interrupted him.

"Be quiet, John," she shushed before looking at Bobby again. "They're going to be here for a good, long while."

_Yeah, right_, Dean thought, having to stop chewing his mouthful of roast beef in order to take a breath. _Friggin' hay fever. _He'd felt it start up earlier that morning thanks to his dad having them sweep out the barn. He'd been more than happy when the rain had started again and the chore was abandoned.

"No, we're not," his father said. "We'll probably just be here until I can find us our next hunt. We can't keep imposing."

"Nonsense! You aren't imposing!" Marla exclaimed. "You're family!"

"Hell, if imposing is the only reason you're not staying, I've got a house that needs fixing up," Bobby offered. "You can stay there rent-free if you work on it for me. I've been meaning to get to it, but just haven't had the time, what with hauling your sorry ass out of trouble every other day."

John glared at Bobby, sending him a look that clearly said "You're not helping!"

"Thanks, Bobby, but I'm no carpenter. The place would be in worse shape _after_ I left it. Thanks, anyway."

"It would be great for you guys," Bobby continued, refusing to be deterred. "It's about five miles out of town, on forty-five acres. It's a couple miles off the main road, so it's secluded. You wouldn't have to worry about prying eyes. Besides, you all could use some time to rest up."

Dean bristled.

"I'm fine!" he snapped. "We don't have to stay because of _me_!"

His outburst was followed by a loud sneeze, which didn't do a lot to help support his claim.

"Bless you!" Marla said, feeling sorry for the poor boy. His eyes were starting to redden and she could tell he was coming down with his allergies. She had told him to stay away from the barn but her concern fell on deaf ears - the barn was home to Zeppelin, the horse who Dean had named and developed a close bond with over the years. Marla was pretty sure it was Zeppelin the teen was actually allergic too, but it would take something short of a miracle to keep the boy from that horse. She just hoped it wouldn't be too bad. He'd been through enough with his asthma; he didn't need anything to worsen it.

"Never said you weren't fine, Dean," Bobby replied calmly. "I just meant that it's been a while since you stayed somewhere for any length of time, and isn't school starting soon? I thought I heard that winter break was almost over."

Dean rolled his eyes when his little brother immediately perked up at the word.

"Yeah!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "School! I could see my friends again!"

"You can see them anyway, dork," Dean muttered. "People do have lives away from school."

John sighed.

"I guess we can stay for a little while," he consented. "We'll go check out the house in the morning."

_Dad did not just give in_, Dean thought incredulously, staring at his father in open amazement. Then a thought struck him: _Holy crap – hell must have frozen over!_

He shot Sam a look of exasperation as his brother started going off about how excited he was to be headed back to this particular school. Sam had friends, but all Dean had managed to make were enemies and he was pretty sure that some, if not all, of the pranks he'd pulled on his final day there had _not_ been appreciated.

Dean started stabbing at his roast beef and prayed that his dad would find them a new hunt that required them to move far, far away.

--

"Oh, man, this has _got_ to be a health hazard!" Sam snarled under his breath, throwing his backpack full of cleaning products over his shoulder.

He stood still in the rain, pulling the hood of his jacket over his head as he stared up at the old house. _Could it look any more creepy?_

The house sat alone, surrounded by trees. That in itself wouldn't have been so bad, but the garden resembled a junk yard and paint hung loosely from the house's wooden slats. One of the stairs up to the front porch was broken and the windows looked like they hadn't been cleaned since some time in the early forties. The old pieces of furniture that lay strewn about the overgrown lawn definitely was helping matters, either.

Yes, this house was a complete shit hole.

"It's not so bad, Sammy," Dean reasoned, coming up beside his brother as he rubbed his hands together and blew into them to generate some heat. They'd stayed in worse.

Sam shot Dean a skeptical look. _Is he blind? _

He noticed that Dean was wearing a black beanie. That's when Sam knew it was winter: Dean would dig out his favorite hat. The cold was nipping and biting at them, but at least the rain was starting to let up. Sam shivered involuntarily.

"We'll get it fixed up in no time. Well, me and Dad will, since you're such a lightweight!" Dean joked, lightly punching his brother on the arm.

Sam just glared. Was he serious? This place needed some hard work, a lot of manual labor, which Sam knew his dad would take pleasure in turning into some kind of warped training exercise.

He grudgingly followed his dad and Dean into the house, taking care to avoid the broken stair. The last thing he needed was a frickin' broken leg.

_This sucks, _he thought with a sigh.

--

Dean _hated_ cleaning. Really. Fucking. Hated. Cleaning.

He and Sam had been assigned to clean their bedroom. Sam had swept it out while Dean brought their stuff in, since the dust bothered him. Now, they were in the process of scrubbing peeling paint from the wall and Dean was about to go crazy from the boredom.

He bent down and picked up a wet rag that he'd been using moments before to clean the window. Sam's back was to him, so he couldn't resist. Balling the rag up into a crude baseball, he reared back and launched it at Sam's head, nailing him.

Sam jumped and jerked his head forward, too far forward, and hit his forehead on the wall with a loud thunk. His paint scraper rattled to the floor and he grabbed his forehead.

"Damn it, Dean!" he shouted, rubbing the future bump on his forehead.

Dean had stared in amazement as Sam hit the wall, wondering if what he was seeing was really happening. _No way! It's too friggin' perfect!_

The paint scraper hitting the floor brought him out of it and he started laughing hysterically.

"Dude!" he said between gasps. "That was awesome!"

Sam glared at him.

"You're such a jerk!" he yelled back. Dean was laughing so hard he had tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Bi-i-tch!" Dean shot back, still laughing. "You shoulda seen your face!"

Sam grabbed the rag and threw it back at Dean angrily. It didn't even come close to hitting him since it was no longer balled up. Of course, this only made Dean laugh harder.

"Good throw, Nolan Ryan! You're doing so well maybe we can start you out hitting with the tee tomorrow!"

John had been down the hall in his own room when the commotion had started. Hearing Sam yelling, he sighed and figured he'd better go see what the trouble was. When he entered his sons' room, he found Dean doubled over in a fit of laughter and Sam looking like he was just about ready to slaughter his older brother.

"Boys," he called out. "What's going on?"

"Dean's being a friggin' jerk!" Sam exclaimed, shooting daggers at his brother and knowing he sounded dangerously like a whiny five-year-old.

Dean straightened up, valiantly trying to curb his laughter, but unable to stop the fits of chuckling that kept besieging him.

"What?" he said, trying to feign innocence, but failing miserably. "I didn't do anything! Sam's imagining things."

"I am not!" Sam roared. "He -."

"Quiet!" John commanded and both boys immediately stilled, although an occasional chortle escaped Dean now and then. He was biting his cheek to keep from laughing, and he was pretty sure he was about to draw blood.

"I don't care what happened. I don't want to know. Just finish cleaning your room. We've got a lot of work left to do to get this place in order," he said, turning and walking out of the room after giving his sons a stern look.

Dean cleared his throat and turned back around to face his wall. Soon the sound of scraping filled the room again.

"Do you _have _to do it like that?" Sam snapped in irritation after ten minutes.

"What are you talking about, Sammy?" Dean stopped scraping and turned to look at his brother.

"Scrape like that! It's driving me nuts! I know you're doing it on purpose!"

"What the hell other way is there to do it, genius!" Dean growled.

"Oh, excuuuuse me!" Sam shot back. "Please forgive me for questioning the great and all-knowing Dean Winchester! What was I thinking?"

"What crawled up your ass and died, anyway?"

"Oh, I don't know, Dean! _Maybe_ I'm a little cranky because I just slammed my head into a wall, no thanks to you!"

"It's not my fault you can't take a joke!" Dean snarled. "Jesus! Chill out, dude!"

"_Boys!" _John yelled from down the hall. "If I have to come in there again, you are both going to be cleaning toilets till eternity! Understand?"

They both gritted their teeth, glaring at each other.

"Yes, sir," they answered, less than enthusiastically.

Dean scraped for about five more minutes and wondered if the paint happened to contain any lead. He hoped it didn't, because Sam needed all the brain cells he could get, the poor kid. Then he wondered if it really was possible to have a psychotic break triggered by boredom. After much consideration, he decided he didn't really want to chance it and dropped his scraper to the floor.

"I need a break," he announced.

"What?" Sam exploded as Dean headed for the door.

"Are you deaf now, Sammy boy? I said I was tak-ing a bre-eak." Dean said the last words slowly and deliberately.

"It's _SAM_! And you don't need a break because you haven't done anything!"

"I haven't done anything? So, I guess that paint over there scraped itself off the wall, right?" Dean snapped angrily. Sam was really starting to get on his nerves.

Sam threw his scraper down and launched himself at Dean. Taken by surprise, Dean went down hard, Sam on top of him.

"Get off me!" Dean growled. They wrestled on the floor in a tangle of flailing arms and legs, neither one really wanting to hurt the other, until John broke it up.

"Dean! Sam!" he roared. "Knock it off!"

As soon as Sam stilled, Dean shoved Sam off of him and got up.

"What did I say?" John yelled in exasperation.

Both boys looked at the old, dirty floorboards, suddenly finding them fascinating. Sam scraped at a stain with the tip of his shoe.

"Dean, you're downstairs," John ordered, tired of his sons' bickering. "Clean the kitchen. Sam, stay here and keep working on the walls. I'm going to Jim's to pick up the drill and some nails. When I come back, there had better be significant progress in both rooms, understood?"

Sam bristled at the military-like order, but nodded.

"Yes, sir," he and Dean muttered simultaneously.

"Good," he moved aside and motioned to Dean. "Lead the way, Rocky."

Dean shot a glare at Sam as he left the room and headed to the kitchen. This meant he was going to have to clean the sink and all that crap. He _hated_ the smell of bleach. It reminded him of hospitals.

"Dean, I'm serious," John said as he grabbed his coat off the hook. "No fighting!"

"Yes, sir," Dean said again. _We're on different floors! How are we gonna fight?_

He sighed when the door shut and a few moments later, the Impala roared to life, quickly fading into silence as his dad drove away. He picked up a scrub brush and started scouring the sink, pissed at Sam that he'd gotten to stay and scrape paint while he got stuck on kitchen duty.

Another fifteen minutes ticked by with all the speed of a cheerleader headed to the library. Dean was considering ways to convince his dad without actually saying anything that all the cleaning was really setting off his asthma and that he'd be better off resting on the porch with a lemonade when he suddenly froze. He couldn't hear Sam anymore.

Curious, and admittedly a little anxious to catch the self-righteous little brat slacking off, Dean crept up the stairs, sticking close to the wall to minimize step squeakage.

He peered around the corner and looked down the hall. Silence.

Sneaking down the hallway, he peaked in room after room, and was met with nothing but dust mites and rat droppings in each one.

And then he heard it. The ceiling squeaked and footsteps rang out above him. The attic.

Dean walked quietly back down the hallway to the attic door. When he opened it, he lifted up on the doorknob to take the pressure off the hinges and it swung open quietly, albeit a little reluctantly.

It was silent again, so Dean skulked up the stairs, slowly peering over the edge of the floor as he ascended. Sam was standing in front of one of the two small windows, looking out, completely oblivious to his brother's presence.

_Perfect._

"SAM WEARS WOMEN'S UNDERWEAR!" Dean roared, leaping out into the open, channelling his inner 8- year-old.

Sam yelled and spun around, landing in a fighting stance, which he immediately dropped when he saw Dean standing there laughing.

"Dude, you are _such_ a girl!"

"Shut up, Dean!" Sam snarled.

"What the hell are you doing up here, anyway?" Dean asked, sauntering across the large attic. "Dad's gonna be pissed if he gets back and sees that you haven't done anything."

"How's he gonna know?" Sam shot back, annoyed that he'd let Dean sneak up on him. "Unless someone tells him?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe your footprints in the dust will tip him off, moron."

Sam automatically looked at the floor, and then back up at Dean, his mouth open to shoot back a reply which never came.

It happened in a split second. The floor gave way underneath their feet and then they were falling. All Dean knew was that one minute, his sneakers were planted firmly on the old worn floorboards, and the next, he was crashing through the rotten wood, his whole body engulfed in a giant cloud of dust. His first thoughts were of his brother and he heard him gasp as his body was tugged down by gravity, screaming out for his big brother.

Before the eldest Winchester brother could think, he hit what he could only guess was another floor with a hard thud, his head bouncing back up after cracking against the varnished flooring. A searing, white-hot pain shot up the 16-year-old's left arm as he felt it crushed underneath his own body. All the air rushed from his lungs with a husky wheeze as he scrunched his eyes closed and arched his back, trying to free his crushed limb from his own body weight.

When Dean tried to shift his arm, he realized he had no control over it. The pain was overtaking his sense and he wanted to throw up. He attempted to open his eyes but had to clench them shut again almost immediately. Thick, black dust and tiny particles of god only knows what rained down on him. Ignoring the overwhelming pain in his arm and shoulder, he attempted to shift onto his side so he would be able to open his mouth without inhaling a lungful of the crap that was circulating in the atmosphere. It was easier said than done. His body jolted and he heard a blood-curdling crunch that he was pretty sure came from his trampled elbow.

"Sam…(cough)…(cough)!" he attempted, calling out to his brother when he could finally open his eyes. The room around him had been darkened by the dust and his eyes stung painfully as he felt the smoggy air irritate the lining of his eye socket.

_This cannot be happening_, he told himself. But it was, and there was not a thing he could do about it, like just about everything else in his fucked up life.

He tried again to call out to his brother.

"Sammy whe...!!"

Dean was cut short, immediately regretting it when he felt the thick grit coat his tongue and throat.

Dean took a few seconds to get his bearings, trying to push the intense pain to the back of his mind. He had to get a grip, get to Sam. His brother needed him.

He rolled over onto his stomach, his forehead against the rotted floorboards, not caring that the debris scraped against his skin. The dust coating his tongue and throat was thick and musty and scratched against his tonsils as he attempted to swallow.

Dean tried to clear his throat and cough it clear, but it wasn't working. He started gagging and heaving uncontrollably, dirty, grime-filled saliva running from his mouth as he tried to prevent it from entering his airway.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of hawking dirty sludge, he lay still, panting against the floor, a pool of his own saliva and stomach acid centimetres from his face.

_Okay, Dean, pull it together. Gotta find Sam._

He opened his eyes again and rolled back onto his side with much difficulty, thanks to the crippling pain that was running up and down his arm from shoulder to finger tips, in sync with his thudding heartbeat.

Pulling in deep, controlled breaths through his nose and exhaling slowly through clenched teeth, Dean attempted to sit up.

He counted to three in his head and hauled himself up into a seated position, his head swimming from the pain. His arm felt like a dead weight and he grabbed at his elbow with his other arm, holding it steady against his chest.

Once he was finally up on his feet, gritting his teeth at the pain in his arm, his panic raised a few hundred notches when he realized that his little brother was nowhere to be seen.

Frantically scanning the room, his eyes went wide when he noticed a large hole in the floor a few feet away. Swallowing hard and looking up at the hole he himself had crashed through, it dawned on him.

He had fallen from the attic to the second floor, so Sammy must have..._he's..he..oh, God!_

"SAMMY!" he screamed, gagging again, only this time he wasn't sure if it was caused by the junk in his throat or the fear in his heart.

His breath hitched at the sight of the broken edges of the floor. There was no denying it; Sam was down there. He had gone through both floors.

Dean's breath sped up as he walked slowly to the edge of the odd shaped hole, terror gripping him firmly in its clutches as he worried what he might find. His stomach muscles spasmed and his throat and chest tightened as he neared.

_Please let him be alive, please let him be alive_!

He repeated the mantra over and over in his head as he heard the dodgy floorboard creak underneath his feet.

When he peered over the edge, all the air left his lungs when he came face to face with his worse nightmare

The dust was still heavy in the air and it was hard to see clearly through his stinging, blurry eyes, eyes that were now filled with tears of pure fear and panic.

Sam lay directly under the hole, on his back, arms spread out at his sides. The bottom half of his body was twisted oddly to the right side, like it didn't belong to him, and a puddle of thick red blood was oozing out from the back of his head, slowly getting larger as the seconds dragged by. Dean was pretty sure a humans body wasn't meant to bend that way.

Dean stood unmoving, almost catatonic. Was this even real?

Snapping himself out of it, he physically shook his head and scoped around the room until he found the stairs, then he took off as fast as his trembling body and the darkness of the room would allow.

When he made it down to the first floor, he noticed immediately that the room was brighter thanks to the large windows letting in the light.

All the pain from his arm was forgotten when he fell to his knees at his little brother's side. Dean had never felt so scared in all his life. Nothing had ever come close to the feeling of complete, raw fear that he felt at that very moment. His baby brother was unconscious and bleeding - bleeding a lot.

Sam looked broken. He was broken and all Dean could do was watch.

"Sammy?"

Nothing.

"Hey, Sammy, can you hear me?"

"Wake up fo-...wake up for me, man," Dean pleaded, his breath running out mid-sentence. "You can't do this to me, Sam! You can't!"

Sam's face was shockingly white. His left eyelid was half open and Dean could see that his eyeball was rolling back into his head. Not a good sign. Shuffling forward a little more on his knees, Dean leaned forward, placing his shaking hand on Sam's hair, which was covered in plaster dust. He felt a wetness seeping through the knees of his jeans and when he glanced down, his heart dropped to his feet and he thought he was going to be sick.

The pool of blood from his brother's head had grown and the thick, syrupy fluid was seeping into his jeans.

"J..Jesus Christ, Sam!" he gasped.

Just then he heard it – the familiar rumble of the Impala.

_Dad!_ Dean thought. _Dad will know what to do!_

"Everything's gonna be okay Sa..." Dean's breath ran out again, and he coughed hard to clear his throat, the familiar vice-like tightness in his chest letting itself be known.

"Dad's here dude, you're gonna be okay now," Dean whispered, hissing in pain as he attempted to pull his hooded zipper off his sore arm with his good hand. Sam needed to be kept warm. Finally, after a tremendous amount of struggling, he managed to drape the garment over the 12-year-old's deathly pale body.

Left in only a grey tee, Dean shivered involuntarily. He was still wearing his trusty black beanie. He couldn't stop the trembles that were wracking his body. The cold? The pain from his arm? The shock? Dean didn't know, and he didn't care.

His head snapped around when he heard the front door creak open.

"What the fu..?" he heard John grumble as he attempted to push the large mahogany door open. It was blocked slightly by large pieces of wood and plaster and was resisting movement.

Dean felt a wave of relief wash over him when he saw his father push open the door and wade his way past the rubble.

"My God!" John whispered when his eyes were met with both of his boys amongst the fallen debris in the still smog filled room

Sam, his baby boy, was lying on the floor, the bottom half of his body twisted in a sickly, unnatural position, and his head...the blood...there was so much blood. Dean was hunched at his brother's side, deathly pale and noticeably trembling, his hand resting on his brother's head.

John's eyes met with his eldest son's, and he felt sick. Dean's face was sheet white, the panda-like eyes that he'd grown used to seeing on Dean over the past few weeks wide with panic. There was blood dripping down the left side of his face, but John couldn't see from where because of his son's hat. The terrified look in his green eyes was enough to make John's heart skip a beat.

What the hell had happened?


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter Five_

_**When suffering knocks at your door and you say there is no seat for him, he tells you not to worry because he has brought his own stool. **_

"Da...Dad," Dean said shakily, his voice tight and raspy. "Sam's hurt bad."

The words jolted John back to reality and he moved as quickly as he could through the maze of rubble, kicking debris aside and leaping over that which he couldn't move. It looked like a bomb had hit, or there had been some sort of explosion - he had only been gone forty minutes, tops. The frantic father had to wave his hand in front of his face to clear the haze that lingered in the air in front of him. His eyes fell to the unconscious teenager. Sam looked even worse up close, which John hadn't thought was possible.

"Move, Dean!" he snapped shortly, shoving his older boy out of the way so he could have easier access to his badly bleeding and broken son.

Dean bit back a yelp of pain as his father's unintentionally harsh shove jolted his throbbing arm. He had been avoiding looking at it; one glance had been enough to turn his stomach and cause his heart rate to sky-rocket. His wrist was definitely broken, that much he knew. It didn't take a genius to work that one out.

His forearm was disfigured, a disturbing dent present where it shouldn't have been. It looked like his hand had become completely disconnected from his wrist; it hung limp, held only by his swollen and purpling skin. His fingers and nail beds had already taken on a dull bluish purple shade, Dean's wrist no longer joined to his hand by bone. His elbow was just as painful and he could feel blood from the joint seeping into his tee. But none of that mattered right now; all that concerned the young hunter was Sam. He did his best to hide the injured limb with his other arm, while keeping it cradled tightly to his heaving chest in an attempt to keep it as stable as possible. The last thing Dean wanted was for his father's attention to be shifted from his little brother to him.

"What the hell happened!" shouted a frantic John, pressing his fingers to his lifeless son's neck; his pulse was there, but barely. He was scared to touch his own child in fear or worsening his injuries.

Swinging his head around, he saw his eldest staring at his bleeding brother, violent shivers wracking the 16-year-old's body, his chest rising and falling with a noticeable amount of effort as his breath sawed in and out through clenched teeth. John noted that he was cradling his left arm and that a blood stain was slowly growing on the front of his gray tee.

"Snap out of it, Dean, dammit!" John growled, more loudly than he had anticipated. He tried again when his son showed no sign of hearing him. "Dean!"

The dust covered teen physically jumped at his father's harsh tone, his glassy eyes blinking owlishly as they left his unconscious brother and looked towards his father.

"I asked you what happened Dean!" John was still shouting, not even realizing he was doing it.

"We...uh...I, we were in the…(Cough)…" Dean swallowed hard; his mouth had virtually no saliva.

"The attic…and the floor, it just...collapsed," he stuttered hoarsely. Dean was shaking so badly now that his teeth clattered together, and his diaphragm spasmed. John stared at his son worriedly for a long moment; Dean was going into shock.

"This is no time to lose it, son," he berated, trying to get Dean to focus. "Pull yourself together! Sam needs you!" Fishing around in his pocket, John pulled out his cell and with trembling hands dialled 911, his own heart thudding loudly in his ears.

"Here," he called, tossing the phone to Dean as he turned his attention back to Sam, too terrified to let his eyes wander to the lower half of his son's body. He heard a clatter and looked back at his eldest, who hadn't managed to catch the phone. Instead, it had landed on the rubble-covered floor.

"Jesus Christ, Dean! The damn line is ringing!" he snapped frustratingly, continuing at a roar without even thinking. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Dean jerked as if his father had slapped him, and carefully stooped to pick up the phone. He had to release his bad arm and almost screamed at the agonizing pain that flashed through his entire body when the injured limb was moved, his vision blurring at the edges. All that escaped was a quiet whimper.

"Hello?" a female voice was calling from the phone. "What is your emergency?"

"My…my brother…" Dean gasped, feeling his throat narrowing and his chest growing tighter by the second.

"Sir, are you all right?" the operator queried, instantly picking up on her caller's distress.

"Yeah," he lied. "Sam, he fell...he's…"

_Christ! Of all the times to not be able to breathe! DAMMIT! _he mentally berated himself, furious at his inability to help his brother. _Just take a god-damn breath and calm the fuck down, Dean!_

"Sir, what happened?" the voice pressed.

Dean focused all his energy into taking big, slow, deep breaths. It didn't work and he started coughing uncontrollably, his stomach threatening to empty what little contents it had left.

Suddenly the phone was pried from his hand.

"Just try to relax as much as you can son, take your inhaler and calm down!" John said as calmly as he could, patting a hand lightly against Dean's leg before sliding back into his spot at Sam's side. Dean heard his father barking into the phone, but he couldn't seem to get his head to clear. His hand shook as he fished his hated inhaler from his jeans pocket and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down as he felt the mist open his restricted airways.

"DEAN!"

Dean was getting tired of these sudden jerks back to reality. They were scaring the shit out of him and he knew without a doubt that it was really pissing his dad off.

"Huh?" he managed. _What the fuck, Dean? Sam's dying in front of you and that's all you can say? God, you're a fuckin' useless wimp!_

"Go get Sammy a blanket!" John yelled, his tone clearly conveying that it wasn't the first time he'd said it. "Now!" John was beginning to lose it. He could see that Sammy's breathing had started to slow down, and his pulse was barely there anymore. His son was dying right in front of his eyes.

And then he was shouting frantically into the phone again in a panic. Dean wondered if the operator was used to getting yelled at. Dad's probably scaring the shit out of her if she's not.

_Fuck! Right. Blanket, _his brain told him, forcing him back from his wandering thoughts.

The stairs suddenly seemed a million miles away as he started towards them, his arm aching and grating with each step he took. Dean knew he deserved every bit of the pain and he welcomed it. He'd hurt Sam. If he would have just left him alone, the floor wouldn't have given way and his little brother would be back in their bedroom, bitching and scraping paint. Instead he was fighting for his life.

It was his job to look after Sammy, and instead, he'd probably killed him, or, judging by the hideous twist of his body, crippled him for life. He knew it, and his dad knew it. It was unforgivable.

His toe caught on the front of one of the steps and he crashed forward, barely managing to twist his body so he wouldn't land on his mangled arm. Unfortunately, he gave the abused limb an inadvertent yank with his cradling hand. A strangled scream escaped from his throat, which he quickly bit down into soft whimpers, tears blurring his vision. Dean was relieved when he heard his dad still yelling into the phone – he hadn't heard his son's weakness.

Blackness was starting to close in around his vision and he pushed it away, opening his eyes wider in an attempt to fend it off. _Don't pass out, don't pass out, don't pass out! Sam needs you! Get up!_

Forcing himself to his feet, he struggled the rest of the way up the stairs and down to the bedroom, picking up Sam's sleeping bag. He wished he had something to hold his arm securely to his chest - if the constant jarring continued, he knew he'd pass out. Before heading back downstairs, he again dug in his pocket for his inhaler, his breath coming in quiet wheezes now. After a couple of quick hits, he headed towards the door, the room wavering precariously around him before eventually settling.

As he started back down the stairs, the distant sound of sirens met his ears.

As soon as John saw his eldest shuffle back into the room, he released his hands from Sam's neck, where he had been holding it as still as he could, and pulled the sleeping bag from Dean's hand, quickly unrolling and unzipping it into one large, heavy blanket and throwing it over his still son's form.

"Sammy," he said urgently. "Come on, buddy. I need you to wake up for me. Open your eyes, Sam."

Dean looked on, feeling like an intruder. He shouldn't be here. This was all his stupid fault; if he'd just stayed in the kitchen and followed his dad's orders, then none of this would be happening right now.

He heard footsteps running up the front steps and glanced away from the scene in front of him. The paramedics and fire-fighters were here. He backed up, moving away. He didn't want to be in the way of them helping Sammy.

Two medics forced John out of the way and started assessing their young patient immediately, checking Sam's vitals.

"Pulse thready and weak," Dean heard the lady medic say, as he closed his watering eyes for a moment, rubbing furiously at them with the back of his good hand. They were stinging so badly that he could actually feel his eyelids begin to swell in reaction to the dust.

"He's unresponsive, pupils sluggish and uneven, left's blown," the other medic reported to his partner as he pried open Sam's eyes one at a time, shining a small light into them and checking his pupil response.

Within a matter of seconds, the medics had Sam in a cervical collar and were getting ready to roll him onto the backboard.

"On three! One…two…three!" Sam was carefully placed on the board. The female medic placed an oxygen mask over his face while the male one started an IV in the back of his hand. They were asking John questions, but Dean couldn't hear exactly what was being said. Everything seemed so far away and muffled, as if he were underwater.

"Dammit! Trey, he's drifting, no respiratory effort. I'm gonna have to intubate!" the lady paramedic informed her partner. Before kneeling by Sam's head, she removed the collar and tilted his chin back as gently as possible, opening his mouth. Dean's breath hitched in his chest and the room tilted. He thought he was going to either throw up or faint as he watched the medic force the long, plastic tube down his brother's throat.

Dean then realized that his dad was speaking to him.

"Why the hell did you let him go up there? I gave you an order! You were both supposed to be cleaning! On separate god-damn floors!" John snapped, his anger finally getting the best of him. He immediately regretted it when his eyes met with his son's; Dean was on the brink of collapse. John reached out a hand to pull his son closer when his heart suddenly stopped at the medic's words.

"Lily, help me hold him still! He's seizing!" John's eyes darted to Sam who was jerking violently on the backboard.

"We need to get him to the hospital now!"

Sam was rushed out of the room in a flurry of activity, John following behind them.

"Come on Dean! Move! NOW!" the terrified father called over his shoulder as he tried to keep up beside the backboard his son was being rushed out on.

Dean didn't move. His feet were rooted to the spot. He couldn't think straight, couldn't see clearly or breathe properly. The pain shock waving from his arm through his entire body was almost too much to bear.

"Hey."

Dean slowly brought his head around to see a fireman standing in front of him. He stared blankly at him, blinking slowly.

"What's your name, kid?"

Dean had to think for a moment. "D-Dean..." he rasped.

"Okay, Dean, I'm Jimmy. Why don't you let me help you out to the ambulance?" he said gently, reaching out and touching the shuddering young man's shoulder reassuringly. "You're not looking so hot."

Dean took a halting step backward, trying to stop the shivering that was getting more intense as time went on.

"No. S'okay, m'fine," he slurred, his puffy, red-rimmed eyes moving sluggishly as he fought to stay focused. "Hel...help... Sam... Sammy," he mumbled, just above a whisper. It was getting harder to breathe.

"Sammy's being taken care of by the medics okay? Let's get you out of here - It's not safe," the fireman continued, talking calmingly. He could tell the teenager needed help. He was clearly disorientated and favoring his arm, which was definitely not supposed to be bent at that odd angle. The kid's breath was coming in strained wheezes, and he was turning paler by the second.

Dean took another step back, eyes searching frantically for his father and brother.

The guy was speaking again, but Dean wasn't listening. He felt the hand on his shoulder for a second time and pulled away, darting for the door with a sudden burst of energy. He had to get out.

The front of the house was a buzz of activity, with the fire-fighters working to secure the building. He could see his father watching as the medics loaded Sam into the back of the ambulance. He couldn't look any longer, couldn't bear to see Sam like that anymore. He almost fell on the broken front step, but he collected himself and ran around the house, his arm jarring painfully with each stride. Once he was safely behind the house, he fell against the wall, fumbling in his pocket for his inhaler, his lungs seizing up in his chest.

He didn't even notice John come up beside him. His father had seen him bolt from the house and had started after him, gesturing for the fireman to stay back for the moment. He was surprised to see Dean pull the inhaler out, but his shaking fingers were unable to hold it and it fell to the ground.

With a soft noise of frustration and pain, Dean started to slowly bend over to pick it up. John reached out and took his elbow to stop him, meaning to retrieve it for him. He was totally unprepared for the wild scream that came from his son as he touched the disconcertingly bent elbow.

Dean had to fight to stay conscious; the pain was immense. His knees buckled and John caught him before he hit the ground.

"Jesus, son, what the hell?" John asked, easing the 16-year-old down until he was sitting on the grass.

"My arm... dad, it...hurts...really..re...really hurts bad...ugh," Dean groaned out breathlessly, unable to control the agony any longer. He then hunched over slightly, cradling his throbbing arm to his body and heaved, emptying his stomach onto the grass by his father's feet.

John immediately knelt on the soggy grass next to his son and rubbed a hand against his back as he continued to hawk and dry heave. John winced when he saw the blackish-gray, grime-filled saliva and phlegm run from the young hunter's mouth. It then dawned on him that his asthmatic son would have inhaled all the crap that had been circulating in the air. _Dammit!_

"It's okay, Dean, cough it all up, son, that's it, get it all out!" John coached, roughly patting his son's back as he watched him cough uncontrollably, his face turning a worrying shade of purple as he fought to expel the dust and debris that had made its way into his sensitive respiratory system. That's when John got his first close up look at Dean's arm and gasped. The limb was a swollen, disfigured mess, and a worrying shade of bluish-purple. _Holy shit, Dean!_

John waited until the harsh coughing fit had eased, leaving behind an all too familiar wheeze every time the teenager pulled in a breath. He felt Dean grip the sleeve of his coat tightly, his green eyes wide with panic "Can't...breathe."

_No, not again, no fuckin' way! I can't watch this again! _John panicked, deja-vu striking him as he thought back to Dean's last asthma attack. It was his fault then and it was his fault now. He shouldn't have taken them into that death trap in the first place. Marla had warned him it was not a good idea with Dean's chest, and Sam had begged him to let him stay at home so he could finish his book, but he didn't listen to either of them. As usual, he thought he knew best. And once again, he was wrong and his children where paying for it, just like they always did.

"Help!" John yelled, eyes searching wildly around him. He spotted the fire-fighter from inside running towards him.

"What happened?" he asked, taking in the scene before him.

"He's asthmatic, he needs to get to the hospital, now!" John shouted frantically, fumbling with Dean's inhaler. He pressed it to his son's lips and tried to get him to inhale on the count of three, but it was useless. Dean couldn't pull in a big enough breath to get the medication into his lungs.

Jimmy couldn't bear to watch the kid struggle any longer or listen to the frightening, high-pitched, wheezing breaths. He bent forward, intending to scoop Dean up into his arms.

"Wait!" John screeched. "His arm, be careful of his arm, it's in bad shape," he informed the fire-fighter.

Jimmy nodded and continued as gently as possible. Dean growled with the pain between gasps for the little breath he could manage as Jimmy cradled him like a baby in his strong arms. With Dean's head resting against his shoulder, Jimmy took off as fast as he could around the front of the house to the ambulance. John followed at his side, his eyes never once leaving his son.

"Little help here, people," the fireman called as he came up to the opened doors of the ambulance. The two medics were hovering around Sam, hooking him up to various pieces of medical equipment.

"What the hell, Jimmy?" the blond-haired medic asked, rushing from the back of the ambulance when he took in the sight of the struggling boy in his colleague's arms. He had noticed the kid when he was in the house, but he hadn't been in this state.

"He's having trouble breathing and his arm is messed up big time," Jimmy informed the paramedic.

"Jeez, why didn't anybody tell us there was a second victim? We could have radioed for another ambulance!" Trey said, throwing a glance at John, who just stared back.

"Okay, sit him up straight on the gurney." Jimmy stepped into the back of the ambulance and sat Dean down on the edge of the gurney opposite Sam, his feet dangling. Jimmy backed away, stepping out of the ambulance to make room for John to climb in.

"Okay, champ," Trey smiled, pulling off Dean's beanie. "My name's Trey and I'm here to help. That's my partner Lily," he said pointing his thumb over his shoulder to the small dark haired medic. "She's taking good care of Sam, so don't worry about him, okay?" Trey was trying to calm his young patient down. He could see his green eyes frantically watching over his shoulder at the other injured teenager as he fought hard to breathe.

"Let's get you sorted out," he smiled, running a trained eye over the 16-year-old.

"Asthma?" he asked. Dean couldn't muster enough breath to answer so he nodded instead.

"Okay, we'll sort ya out in no time. First, we'll get those lungs dealt with and then I'll take a look at that arm, okay?"

Once again, Dean nodded. _You ain't touching my fuckin' arm pal, nobody's going anywhere near it._ Dean had never in his life felt pain like it; his arm was beyond any agony he thought was even possible. The pain had been somewhat manageable until his dad had tugged at it, then manageable sky-rocketed to unbearable.

John sat down on the gurney beside his son, rubbing a reassuring hand up and down his trembling back as his eyes darted between watching Trey set the nebulizer up and Sam laying motionless under a sea of tubes and wires while Lily informed the hospital of his condition through her radio.

"Okay, champ, I'm sure ya know the drill," Trey smiled, handing his patient the hissing piece of equipment. Dean snatched it greedily from his hand and started sucking on the mouthpiece desperately, wanting some relief from the foggy medicine that he knew would help him.

"How...How's Sammy…" he gasped, momentarily removing the mouthpiece.

"We're taking care of him," Trey said as the teen replaced the mouthpiece. He placed his stethoscope in his ears and pulled the neck of Dean's tee down just enough to place the cold disk against his chest.

"Wow, Trey, we gotta get a move on, his BP's dropping!" Lily reported, glancing around at her partner. Dean felt his heart rate speed up. John moved to his youngest son and leaned over next to the paramedic, taking Sam's hand in his, careful of the IV in the back of his hand.

"Hey, Sammy, it's Dad. You gotta hang in there, okay, buddy?"

Lily felt like she was intruding on a private moment so she stepped back as the father ran his hand through the young boy's hair and whispered reassurances in his ear.

"How's he doing?" she asked turning her attention to her partner, just as he was slipping a pulse ox clip on the older boy's finger, and then began rummaging through the large orange box labelled 'controlled narcotics '.

"Dean here is having a little trouble with his asthma," Trey said, pulling a vial from the box and carefully reading the label. "Can you get an IV going please, Lily? I'm just gonna give him a 10 of morphine to help with the pain and get him to relax a little, then we can get going."

Dean was hardly paying attention to what was being said as he concentrated on his breathing. The next thing he knew, the lady paramedic had her hands on his shoulders, guiding him around gently so that his back was resting against the pillow on the gurney. He was still in an upright position, but he felt instant relief as some of the pressure was taken off his arm when she slipped a pillow onto his lap, slowly easing the injured limb against it. She had swapped the mouthpiece of the nebulizer for a mask, and inserted an IV in the back of his good hand before Dean could even register what was going on.

Once she had dealt with Dean, Lily climbed into the driver's seat and started up the ambulance, the sirens wailing as they pulled away from the house.

"Are you allergic to anything, Dean?" Trey asked. Dean nodded. Just as he was reaching a hand up to pull the mask down to answer, John answered for him, which Dean was extremely grateful for.

"Penicillin. He's fine with morphine," John added, knowing that would have been the EMT's next question.

"Good," Trey mumbled as he used a syringe to expel the clear fluid from the small vial.

"Now, Mr. ah..." The paramedic realized he didn't know the father's name.

"Winchester, but call me John," he answered, still running his hand through Sam's floppy hair, feeling sick every time he had to look at the tube protruding from his youngest boy's mouth. Sam had never been this still, never.

"Okay, John, I need you to come over here and sit with Dean while I take care of Sam."

John nodded and watched as the medic unscrewed the needle from the syringe and fitted the end over the small port in the canula in the back of Dean's hand.

"You'll feel a little burning up your arm, champ, then you should start feeling better in a few minutes," he said as he slowly pushed his thumb down on the plunger, sending the strong painkiller into the green-eyed boy's bloodstream.

Trey watched as Dean started to physically relax. He had to be careful not to give his young patient too much because the morphine could further depress Dean's already labored breathing.

He watched as his patient's eyes rolled back and his eyelids fluttered as the medication did its job, taking the edge off his agony.

Leaning over, John brushed a kiss against Sam's forehead before squashing past the medic to sit at the foot of Dean's gurney.

"He's gonna be groggy with the morphine. Just keep a close eye on him. Let me know if his breathing changes at all," Trey said to John, sending him a sympathetic look. The poor guy must be at his wits end with his two kids in need of medical attention. John nodded, placing one of his large hands over the top of Dean's and stroking his wrist with his thumb. Dean was pretty much out of it, the only sign that he was still awake the occasional involuntary cough that would shudder through his chest and send the foggy mist billowing out the sides of the nebulizer mask strapped to his face in little white clouds.

That's when realization hit John Winchester. He had come so close to losing both his children today - God, he still


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter Six**_

**The truth that many people never understand, until it is too late, is that the more you try to avoid suffering the more you suffer because smaller and more insignificant things begin to torture you in proportion to your fear of being hurt. **

**When there is pain, there are no words. All pain is the same.**

John rushed along the hospital corridor behind the gurneys containing his sons. Everything was happening in a rush and he could only pick out random sentences being called out.

"_12-year-old male, fell through two floors from a significant height.."._

"_Head trauma - possible fractured skull, he's lost a lot of blood, pupils uneven but reacting to light..."_

"_Unresponsive since we got there, possible spinal, pelvic, shoulder, and rib fractures..."_

"_Intubated, stats good and holding at 98 - he had a seizure at the scene timed out at two minutes, his BP's been dropping..."_

"_He's bleeding internally somewhere..."_

"_Pulse slow and thready..."_

John's heart was thudding painfully in his chest. Why was this happening?

"_This is Dean, 16- years-old, severe asthma attack – most probably a reaction to the dust, the kids covered in it...got him on an albuterol nebulizer, plus a rapid infusion of epi – not showing any sign of improvement – his oxygen levels have been steadily decreasing now at 81...pulse and heart rate erratic."_

John's eyes darted to his eldest son, who was listless, his head rolling from side to side, eyes at half mast, his pupils dilated with the morphine. John could feel the panic radiating from the teenager. Dean was using his hand to hold the nebulizer mask even though it was strapped firmly to his face, gulping down the foggy medication, mouth wide, and back arched. John glanced at his watch; it had been a 20 minute ambulance ride, and Dean's breathing hadn't improved at all, even though he had been given the medication plus an IV infusion of epinephrine. If anything, John thought his boy was getting worse.

"_Severe fracture and dislocation of the right forearm,wrist and elbow. Barely got a pulse there - We're gonna need orthopaedics down here, before this kid loses his arm!_

John's breath jammed hard in his throat.

_...gave him 10 of morphine in the bus - he has a known allergy to penicillin - father informed us he's on keflex for a chest infection.._

"Da..Dad." Dean gasped, using his IV-clad hand to pull the fogging mask down. John quickened his pace up until he was at his son's side, reaching out and gripping the rail at the side of the moving bed.

"Sammy..is..he(cough)cough)(cough). I'm..sorry..." John frowned when he noticed that Dean's lips where turning that awful blue color, like before. _They're giving him the medication he needs, why isn't he getting better?_

"Sa...Sam..my..wh..where.."

"Shh, shh, Kiddo, don't try to talk, deep breaths. Let's get this back on," John soothed, moving his hand forward to place the mask back snugly over his son's nose and mouth again.

But Dean paid no attention and kept talking, his voice muffled by the sounds of the nebulizer.

"This..isn't...wor...working..this t-time..Da..Dad..it's getting...har..der..harder to...brea..bre.."

"DEAN!" John called out as he watched the teens chest rise and fall even faster than it had before, only this time, every now and then Dean's chest would stop moving at all, the little air he managed to pull into his lungs refusing to to be exhaled. The teens hand clutched tight against his sternum as he arched his back, forcing his head into the pillow, coughing and gasping. _Oh shit, oh shit, I can't breathe, I can't breathe!_

"Pulse ox dropped to 72," called out one of the nurses.

"He needs to be intubated NOW!" screeched a doctor, who was at the head of the gurney leaning over and listening to Dean's chest with his stethoscope.

"Hel..Dad..he..he..elp..me..." Dean's throat was making a strange screeching sound as he fought to pull in air through his dangerously narrowed airways, and his chest worked rapidly, trying to pull oxygen into his pleading lungs.

"It's okay, it's okay," John chanted, reaching up and stroking Dean's damp hair from his pale forehead. He was overwhelmed with everything that was going on.

"Dammit, he's arrested!" he heard the doctor beside Sam call out and watched as she climbed up expertly onto the moving gurney,and straddled his lifeless son. John felt as if the room was closing in on him as he watched the small doctor pump his boy's chest, trying to get his heart to beat again.

"Sammy!" he screamed out, but his plea fell on deaf ears, and all he could do was watch helplessly as his 12-year-old was rushed through the double, swinging doors with the words 'PEDIATRIC TRAUMA' plastered across them in bright, bold letters.

John's hand was harshly pulled away from his eldest son's forehead. That's when he realized Dean had gone limp. The distraught father heard the words.

"He's in resp... dammit he's not breathing!" as they wheeled Dean further down the hall.

"No, Dean!"

"Sir, I'm sorry but you can't go any further, only patients and medical staff beyond this point," a small, red-haired nurse said. She stood in front of John with two folders clutched in her arms.

"I need you to fill out these forms.."

John snapped.

"FORMS, FUCKING FORMS!" John erupted, the reality of the situation taking over.

"MY SONS ARE FIGHTING FOR THEIR LIVES AND YOU WANT ME TO FILL OUT YOUR DAMN FORMS!"

The small nurse stood, speechlessly staring up at the large, scruffy man who had tears running freely down his face as he paced up and down frantically while rubbing his hands over his stubble and shaking his head.

"This can't happen, not to my boys," he said just above a whisper, his tear-stained eyes making contact with the nurse. She had to swallow back a lump in her throat at the pain written in the distraught father's eyes.

"They're my kids, they're all that matters - they can't..," John stepped back, a sob escaping from his throat, and for the first time in his life John Winchester didn't care if there was anyone there to witness it, as he slid down the wall until he was seated on the cold linoleum floor.

"I can't lose my boys, I just can't."

--

Marla Murphy frantically polished her treasured oak coffee table. She was worried, and when the retired nurse was worried, she cleaned. She had expected John and the boys back hours ago, and now it was nearly dinner time and they still weren't home. It wasn't like John to be late or, at the very least, to not call to let her know they weren't going to make it home in time. She kept telling herself that they had probably just got caught up with cleaning the house.

She heaved a sigh of relief when she heard the phone ringing - that would be John calling to check in. Marla hadn't been happy with the hunter for taking Dean along to the damp, moldy and dust infested house. It was no environment for a boy who'd suffered a severe asthma attack a mere week before, and poor little Sammy had wanted to stay behind and finish the last chapter of his book, but their father had been adamant that they help out.

"Marla." Her stomach sank when she heard the tone of her husband's voice. Something was wrong.

Jim stood by the door, the cordless phone held tightly in his hand and a look of fear on his wrinkled face.

"That was John. There's been an accident."

--

Marla and Jim rushed into the ED, having made the trip to the hospital from their home in record time. Jim had called his grandson Caleb to meet them at the hospital. Caleb had been working a poltergeist job not far from the Murphy's and had called that morning saying he'd be back home later that day. The 26-year-old was happy to hear the Winchesters were also in town; he missed them when they were on the road, he'd met up with them the week before for Dean's birthday. When his granddad called to say there had been an accident and both boys where hurt, he dropped everything and made a beeline for the hospital.

When the elderly couple approached the main entrance to the hospital, Caleb was already there, and he caught them before they reached the reception desk.

"How are they?" Marla asked worriedly. "What's going on?"

"I don't know exactly," Caleb replied in frustration, rubbing his palms on his thighs. "They won't let me back there. Sam…well, it doesn't look good. He crashed but they got him back again. The nurse says they've taken him for CT and MRI scans on his head and spine. It's bad, really, really bad." Caleb stopped for a minute to swallow, his mouth beyond dry.

"Dean had one of his attacks, and from what Johnny said, it was pretty major. He stopped breathin' and they've got him on a ventilator." The young hunter swallowed hard, finding that saying the words was making the nightmare situation seem more real.

"His arm's in a bad way. He's in surgery now. Johnny just went up to the OR floor to see if there was any news. I've been asking what the hell's going on, but that bitch," he said pointing to the tall, gray-haired lady behind the admin desk, "won't tell me anything, says I'm not family!"

"Calm down, son," Jim said, his pastor and granfather skills kicking in, his voice soothing the worried hunter's frazzled nerves instantaneously.

"What happened, honey?" Marla asked, wringing her hands.

"There was some sort of accident at the house. The attic floor collapsed and the boys fell. I don't know any details - Johnny's a mess," Caleb rushed.

"Ooohhh, I knew that house wasn't safe! I should have put my foot down when john said he was taking the boys with him," she sobbed. Jim put a consoling arm around her shoulder and guided her over to a quiet corner of the waiting room, where the three of them sat down. There was a box of Kleenex on the end table, so Jim pulled a few tissues from it and handed them to his distraught wife.

"Does Bobby know?" Jim asked, rubbing soothing circles on Marla's back.

"Yeah, I called him. He should be here any second."

Right on cue, Bobby sprinted through the automatic doors, making a beeline for the desk.

"Bobby!" Caleb called, earning himself some glares from the other people in the waiting area.

The grizzled man had obviously just come from working on a car because his shirt had grease and oil stains on it and his face had dark smudges scattered across it. He still had a wrench sticking out of his back pocket, forgotten there in his haste to get to the hospital.

"I came as fast as I could. Have you heard any more?" Bobby asked, his brow creased with worry.

"No. Nothing. It's not good, Bobby," Caleb answered, which got Marla started on a fresh round of quiet sobs. "The nurses won't tell us anything because supposedly, we aren't 'family'."

"Fuck that," Bobby replied sharply, unable to stop the words and immediately shooting Jim and Marla an apologetic look. "If anyone asks, John and I are brothers."

He returned a few minutes later, with less news than he would like, but at least it was something.

"They just took Dean into recovery, said the surgery went as well as could be expected. He's stable, Johnny's with him. There's still no word on Sammy," he informed the trio, sinking into a chair beside Caleb and rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"Would you boys care to join Marla and I in a prayer?" Jim asked quietly.

"Sure, Grandpa," Caleb answered as Bobby nodded his approval. "I think that's a great idea." They needed all the help they could get. He knew if Dean had been there he'd be rolling his eyes right about now.

The four of them bowed their heads and folded their hands in their laps as Jim started speaking, his gentle words filling the dreary silence of the room.

When he had finished, none of them moved, and they remained silent, heads still bowed and hands still folded, each fervently offering their own silent pleas for the Winchester boys to be all right.

They remained like that long after the ER slowed down and fresh rounds of people cycled in and out, waiting for news on their small family.

--

Dean could hear what was going on around him long before he even realized he could. Once his sluggish brain kicked in and started telling him to wake up, he was too tired to force his eyelids to even flicker.

He could hear an annoying beeping, constant and coming from somewhere off to his right, and he vaguely wished that Sam would wake up and turn his alarm clock off. He'd do it himself if he wasn't so friggin' exhausted.

He could hear other noises, too: a quiet, occasional whooshing, soft voices and phones ringing every so often. He knew he should be worried, but he just couldn't seem to work up the energy to care.

He drifted in and out before finally prying his eyes open, although his monumental efforts only succeeded in opening his eyes a crack. That's when he realized there was something invading his windpipe, forcing his aching chest to rise and fall. He attempted to swallow but only succeeded in gagging.

"Dean?"

His dad's concerned face hovered over his, appearing so quickly that Dean's brain jumped the tracks, while his drugged body didn't even move.

He felt panic well up from deep in his chest, he knew he was on a ventilator, like before when he had bronchitis and had inhaled too much smoke in the barn fire. He had to speak, had to ask how Sam was. He was trying to lift his hand up to pull the tube from his mouth, but finding that it was weighted down. He switched tactics and raised his other hand, trying to coordinate the unwilling limb to move at least in the general direction of his head. A hand caught his flailing hand, holding it between two of their own.

"Take it easy, kiddo. I'm right here. You're fine. You just had surgery to fix your arm, you can't breathe on your own right now, son, the vent's helping you out, so don't fight it, just work with it." His Dad's low, calming voice reassured by his ear.

Dean frowned, or at least, he thought he did. He couldn't be sure.

_What the fuck? Surgery? - Oh yeah, my arm. But what about Sammy, why isn't dad with him? Where is he? Oh, please no._

As if his father could read his mind, John started running his hand over Dean's hair in a soothing motion.

"Sammy's gonna be okay, son. He's gonna be okay," John whispered, praying that he was right.

Dean couldn't fight the pull of sleep any longer, sinking back into its welcoming arms.

--

"Dean woke up," John informed his anxious friends. He ran a hand over his face. "They're just keeping an eye on his breathing for an other hour or so and if all is well, they'll take the tube out and move him to a room and we'll be able to stay with him."

"Oh, thank God!" Marla burst out.

"How'd he seem, John?" Caleb asked. He knew the teen wouldn't be too pleased with being on a vent, again.

"Groggy. He couldn't speak because of the tube and I'm not even sure he knew I was there. But he didn't seem to be in any pain. The surgeon said he was lucky he didn't lose his arm. They've got it mended together with pins and a metal plate in his wrist, they don't know how long his arm was without a decent blood supply, so only time will tell if there's any permanent damage."

John sat down, only to get up immediately and start pacing.

"Any word on Sammy?" he asked.

Caleb shook his head.

John sighed and ran a shaky hand through his hair. No news was good news, right?

He physically jumped when the door opened and a small, round asian man in his mid forties dressed in blood-splattered scrubs entered.

"Mr. Winchester?" he asked, scoping the room.

"Yes," John stood immediately, stepping forward to stand in front of the small man.

" I'm Dr. Chang, Can I ask you to come with me into my office to discuss Sam's condition?" John swallowed hard and his stomach sank. It was bad news, he could feel it.

"You can say anything in front of them, they're family," John said, his voice shaking. He felt Marla come up beside him and place a hand on the small of his back.

The doctor nodded, taking a deep breath before he began.

"Okay, well, as you are aware, Sam has suffered a severe head trauma. I'm afraid his skull was fractured, just behind his left ear. Thankfully his CT and MRI scans have come back negative for bleeding." John let out a sigh of relief, at least that was something.

"But at the moment, the head injury is not as concerning as his spinal or pelvic injuries. I'm afraid Sam has sustained massive trauma to his lower back. His pelvis is fractured in four separate places." John felt the breath go from his lungs and Marla rubbed her hand soothingly along his back.

"There is also some internal haemorrhaging around his pelvic area, and severe swelling to his lower spine and kidneys. I'm sorry to be blunt here, Mr. Winchester, but Sam is in very critical condition. I've managed to stem the bleed in his pelvis, but only time with tell how severe the trauma to his spinal cord is. We have him in traction to hold his pelvis as still as possible, and prevent any further damage."

This was too much. John couldn't bear it.

"I'm afraid the next 24 hours are critical." John just stood there dumbfounded. The doctor was telling him that he had no clue whether his son was going to make it another day or not.

"You will be kept informed of his condition," the doctor said, before turning and leaving, as if what he had just said was no big deal to him.

The room remained silent long after the doctor had left.

When a nurse came to say that Dean had been taken off the ventilator and was into a private room on the pediatric surgical ward, relief swept through the concerned family members. The nurse also informed them that only two visitors were allowed in with Dean at the same time.

--

Consciousness returned to Dean slowly, creeping along his body and whispering into his ear gently, coaxing him back to the world. He was glad for the slowness of it all, because the throbbing ache coming from his arm got worse the more he woke. His chest was also beginning to let him know it was pissed at its treatment, and he could tell his head would be splitting open if they didn't have him on some kind of painkiller. By the time he finally opened his eyes, he had tolerable control over the discomforts his body was feeling. The drugs had taken the edge off, so he thought he was doing pretty good. Just tired. He was happy to find he no longer had that damn tube rammed down his throat, and he was even more thankful he couldn't recall it being removed. He was grateful for the oxygen mask over his face that was hissing quietly away, as he could still feel a restrictive tightness in his chest.

His dad was asleep in the large leather chair beside his bed, his legs stretched out in front of him and his head resting on the back of the chair in what looked like an extremely uncomfortable position.

Dean must have made a sound because Marla was suddenly hovering over him.

"Oh, Dean!" she cooed worriedly, planting a kiss on Dean's forehead, and running her hand gently over his tussled hair. "How are you feeling, sugar?"

"Peachy," Dean croaked, giving her a tired smile. His faint breath fogging the clear plastic mask. _Man, that was one mother of an asthma attack, _he thought to himself, recalling the previous events slowly in his head.

Hearing his dry voice, Marla took the water mug from the table and filled it at the sink. Returning, she slipped the mask down to rest around his neck and placed the straw between Dean's cracked lips.

"Take a drink, sugar. You must be parched!"

When he had finished, Marla placed the mug back on the table and pulled up a chair. That was when Dean remembered.

"Sam!" he said suddenly, struggling to sit up. Marla immediately placed her hand on his chest and forced him back down, which wasn't hard to do. His voice had woken John, and he was suddenly opposite Marla.

"Dad, where's Sam?" Dean asked frantically. "Is he okay?" he asked, his glazed green eyes wide with panic.

"He's in the PICU kiddo. He hasn't woken up yet," John answered. Reaching forward and putting the mask back over the teens nose and mouth. Dean was in no state to be told just how serious his little brother's condition was.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Dean whispered, looking down when he said it. For the first time, he noticed the large bulky cast on his arm, as it rested on a pillow at his side. He had more IVs in his good arm and hand than he cared to count.

John and Marla exchanged looks, and Marla excused herself, shutting the door behind her, going outside to where her husband and grandson and close friend waited anxiously.

"It's not your fault, Dean. I don't want to hear you say that again, got it? You had no way of knowing that the floor was unstable. There was no way you would have been able to predict that this would happen. If anyone's to blame, it's me, for taking you both into that hell-hole to begin with."

"But -," Dean began, only to be interrupted by his father.

"No buts, Dean! It wasn't your fault, so stop blaming yourself, all right? All I want you to focus on is healing up, okay, bud?" John rubbed Dean's head, hoping it would help calm his son.

"Is Sam gonna be okay? 'Cause he looked…" Dean trailed off as the image of his brother's twisted body lying in a pool of blood came roaring back into his head.

"He's a Winchester, Dean. Of course he'll be okay," John replied, forcing a smile that he didn't feel onto his face and hoping his son wouldn't notice how fake it was. Even as he said the words, he himself did not believe them.

"Can I go see him?"

John looked doubtfully at him. He needed his rest, but he also knew that Dean needed to see his brother, to confirm for himself that he really was still alive.

"Okay, but as soon as I say it's time for you to come back here and get some rest, you do it, no questions. That was a pretty massive attack you had, kiddo. Dr. Sweedland said it was probably a reaction to all the crap you inhaled. You had a bit of a skin reaction, too. Your eyes were swelling like bug-man, so they gave you some antihistamines through your IV."

Dean wasn't even listening to his father and had already pulled the mask down again, leaving it to dangle around his neck. He was struggling to cradle the heavy cast to his chest and swing his feet over the edge of the bed, feeling the IVs in the crook of his elbow and the back of his hand pull. The one in his elbow was for fluids and pain relief while the one in the back of his hand was steroids to help keep his asthma under control. Just as he attempted to step off the bed, the pulse ox clip that was attached to his index finger pinged off and fell to the floor, causing the machine at his bedside to screech frantically. John put a restraining hand on his son's chest when he saw he was in danger of tearing out the lines. He swiped the small gray clip up from the floor, promptly clipping it back onto the 16-year-old's finger, earning himself a scowl as the frantic beeping fell back into a more regular rhythm of the constant and annoying - 'blip' 'blip' 'blip' 'blip'

"Not yet, Dean. In a bit. You just woke up and I want the doctor to take a look at you before you go jumping out of bed. And you're using a wheelchair," he added, knowing his son would protest.

"What? No! I'm fine!" Dean said as forcefully as he could, which wasn't saying much at the moment.

"Sure you are. You use the wheelchair or you don't see Sam. Your decision."

Dean sank dejectedly back onto his pillows, exhausted, but refusing to sleep again.

"Fine," he mumbled, picking at the corner of his blanket, fighting to keep his stinging eyes open.

"Good choice," John said, patting Dean on the shoulder, and once again replacing the mask.

John had hoped that his son would fall asleep again, but Dean remained stubbornly awake. When the doctor came in, she was less than thrilled with the idea of her patient moving from the bed, but both John and Dean made it clear that it _was _going to happen. So she exchanged his oxygen mask for a nasal cannula, and made sure he had a wheelchair equipped to carry a portable oxygen tank and his IV bags of fluid and steroids.

An hour later, John pushed Dean's wheelchair into Sam's room, his cast resting on a large pillow placed in his lap.

Neither said a word at first, both simply taking in Sam's awful appearance. Even though John had already seen his youngest, it still felt like the first time every time he saw him here.

Sam was hooked up to a ventilator and all kinds of various machines, and a soft beeping reassured them both that his heart was still beating. He was set up in traction, making it look like they'd just stepped into some medieval torture chamber.

Dean reached out a shaky hand and placed it on Sam's arm as his dad settled him at his brother's side.

"Sammy?"

"He's still sedated from the surgery," John said softly, feeling Dean's pain and anguish at seeing Sam like this. Words couldn't describe how it felt.

Dean looked over at his father, his eyes rimmed with tears.

"What's wrong with him?" he asked, fearful of the answer.

"He broke his pelvis and messed up a few of his ribs. He has a fractured skull and a severe concussion, a dislocated shoulder, and a broken ankle." John took a deep breath and continued. Dean wasn't in any condition himself to deal with this.

"There's also some damage to his spine, and some swelling. Right now, as far as they can tell, he's paralysed from his lower waist. The doctors aren't sure if it's permanent - they think it might be just because of the swelling. We'll know more when he wakes up."

Dean felt like someone had just sucker-punched him in the gut.

"What?" he whispered. _Please tell me he didn't just say what I think he did? No!_

John cringed at his son's suddenly chalk-white face.

"It might not be permanent. The doctors are hopeful," he said, trying to be positive.

"_Might_ not be permanent?"

"Dean -."

"Sam's paralysed because of me! Jesus Christ! What the hell am I supposed to say to him: 'I'm sorry, Sam, but you can't ever walk again because of me.'? Oh, my God."

John could see that Dean was working himself up. That was the last thing the 16-year-old needed.

"Dean, calm down. You're breathing's getting rough."

"You're worried about my stupid limp lungs?" Dean growled, fighting to keep in control of his breathing.

"Sam can't fuckin' move his legs, Dad! He could be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of his life and you're worried about my freakin' asthma?"

"Dean, stop!"

"It should be _me_ lying there! I'm the one who made the floor collapse! If I hadn't gone up there, none of this would have happened!" he wheezed out, closing his eyes and taking slow, deep breaths, willing himself to calm down.

John opened his mouth to snap at Dean, upset that his son was being so hard on himself, but Dean continued.

"Sam's the good one! He's going places, not me! If there was a God, there's no way he'd do this!"

John swung the wheelchair around to face him and squatted in front of his angry and panicking son, gripping his knees firmly.

"Dean, look at me," he ordered, locking his eyes onto Dean's green ones, which were filled with fear. "This _wasn't_ your fault. We don't even know if it's permanent, and even if it is, Sam won't blame you. _I _don't blame you. Nobody does, son. You can't keep carrying the weight of the world around on your shoulders, Dean, especially when it's not yours to carry. I am so proud of you, of both of you, and I don't want you to ever talk like that about yourself again, okay?"

John sighed when Dean didn't answer him and simply looked away. He gave Dean's knees a gentle squeeze, wishing he'd listen to this advice just like he listened to everything else he said, and stood up.

"We'd better get you back to bed. I promised Dr. Sweedland no longer than ten minutes and you're due for another nebulizer treatment and painkillers pretty soon," John said quietly. Dean turned his wheelchair back around, very awkwardly with one hand. Reaching out, he gripped Sam's hand.

"Wake up, man. I'm sorry," he said quietly, intensely.

"Please Sammy, you gotta wake up."


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter Seven_

_**We came into the world like brother and brother; And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another. **_

John sat at Sam's bedside, where he had been perched for over four hours. His hand rested over the 12-year-old's as he lay still in the large ICU bed, yet to regain consciousness. He listened intently to the various sounds that filled the room: the regular beeping of the heart monitor, the rhythmic whooshing of the respirator. However, the sound that was loudest and catching his attention the most was the croaky, congested breathing rattling from deep in his eldest son's chest, the effort-filled breaths accompanied by the occasional, rumbling cough.

John turned his head to look at the young hunter slumped in an uncomfortable position in the chair at his side. Dean was dressed in a pair of blue scrubs which were a few sizes too big, and his left arm was in a bulky, white cast that extended from his knuckles to a couple of inches above his elbow. The injured limb was strapped securely to his chest with a dark blue, cotton sling.

John sighed. Dean looked terrible, ill. It had been a mere four days since he had been on a ventilator himself. His face was sheet white, his green eyes still red-rimmed and slightly puffy, and dark purple smudges circled his eye sockets, giving him what Caleb liked to call the "panda effect". John was surprised that Dr. Sweedland had finally discharged him earlier that morning.

John could tell a mile off that the 16-year-old was beyond exhausted, physically and emotionally. He was amazed at Dean's ability to stay upright, even though his overtaxed body was pumped full of painkillers, steroids, antibiotics and a hefty dose of antihistamines, which the doctor had warned John would cause his boy to become drowsy. So far, though, Dean had been fighting it, forcing himself to stay awake despite his body desperately pleading for rest. He wanted to be there when Sam woke up, but it was getting harder to stop himself from drifting off.

John watched as his son's heavy eyelids drooped shut yet again and Dean jerked them back open, forcing them open unnaturally wide in his attempt to stay awake. John sighed out loud. He couldn't bear to witness this any longer. Dean was torturing himself.

"I think it's about time you got some rest, son," John tried, placing a hand on his son's knee and frowning when he realized the teen was trembling.

"M'okay, Dad," Dean croaked, clearing his still irritated throat. His father's voice had startled him from his half-asleep daze and his heart was pounding against his ribs. He clenched his teeth against the shivers threatening to wrack his body.

"No, you're not, kiddo. You're far from okay. You need to go home and get some decent food inside you, and sleep in your own warm bed. If you keep this up, the doctor will just admit you again. You're dead on your feet, Dean."

"Fine," he mumbled, letting out a jaw-cracking yawn. John was taken aback at how quickly Dean caved and his concern increased tenfold; if Dean was willing to leave his little brother's bedside, John knew without a doubt that he had to be feeling beyond horrible.

"Hey, guys," Caleb said in a hushed tone as he entered the large door and crept inside.

"Caleb, just the man," John said, running a hand over his days-old stubble. He really needed a shower and a shave.

"I want you to get this one home to bed. Make sure he eats, takes his medicine and gets some rest. Don't let him out of your sight - if you think he's relapsing in any way, you drag his scrawny ass back here immediately, got it?" John said in a voice that left no doubt that it was an order.

"Yes, sir," Caleb answered, while Dean rolled his eyes.

"I'm not a kid, Dad. I can take care of myself."

"I didn't say you were, Dean," John huffed. You're still my kid.

"But you're barely conscious and there's no way in hell I'm letting you sit in that friggin' chair a minute longer." His tone was angrier than he anticipated, but when he continued, it was gentle. "I know you're in pain, son, so please just go home and rest. I'll call you if there's any change."

Dean didn't argue. He just nodded. He was in pain. His arm was throbbing and his back ached all over, thanks to bruises so big they practically covered his entire shoulder area and lower back. His chest was sore, too, and his ribs ached from the constant coughing. He was just so tired, but he couldn't sleep. His mind was racing, refusing to switch off.

Dean had just stood up lazily from the hard chair when he heard it: the rhythmic beating of Sam's heart monitor had picked up pace and was bleeping frantically. All three men stood frozen, staring at the young patient in the bed as his arms started flailingfrantically in the air. John leapt forward as the floppy-haired teen's left hand went for the ET tube inserted down his throat.

"Sammy!" Dean called out, his heart hammering painfully against his ribs as he rushed to his brother's bedside while Caleb flew through the large doors shouting for help.

Dean caught sight of Sam's eyes. His little brother stared at him, his eyes pleading for help as he panicked and tried to struggle out of his father's hold.

"It's okay, Sammy. You're okay," Dean said placatingly as he tried to calm him, his voice shaking as he leaned forward and used his good hand to stroke the hair from the 14-year-old's forehead.

"Stay still, Sammy, come on, son," John pleaded, terrified that his boy was doing more damage to his broken body by attempting to move.

Within seconds the doors swung open again and before Dean knew what was going on, he was ushered out of the room by Caleb, who placed an arm around his shoulder and guided him out as gently as he could past the influx of medical staff.

"Let me go!" Dean shouted, pushing against Caleb's strong grip around his shoulders. "I mean it, man, fucking let me go! He needs me in there!"

"Calm down, dude!" the older hunter shouted back, still trying to restrain the frantic teen.

Dean tried to swing out of Caleb's strong arms, but only succeeded in falling forward into the wall, his injured arm making contact with a chair. He yelled out in agony as sharp, searing pain shot through his arm and shoulder, making his vision swim. He crumbled to the cold, sterile floor, lying in a fetal position, his good arm cradling his sling.

Caleb winced and rushed forward as a string of curse words left the eldest Winchester's lips through clenched teeth.

"Jesus Christ, Dean," Caleb sighed, kneeling at his side. "What the hell are you doing, you idiot? You love that cast so much you thought you'd try and get one for your other arm, too?"

Dean lay on his side, eyes and teeth clenched tight. Sweat was starting to form on his forehead and was already trickling down his spine. He tried to force himself to relax and his nostrils flared as he pulled in slow, deep breaths.

"What the hell?" a very weary-looking John exclaimed as he bound through the doors of Sam's ICU room and saw his oldest son lying on the floor.

"M'kay," Dean mumbled through still-clenched teeth. His arm was extremely painful and he had to hold back the bile creeping up his throat. "Sam...?"

"He's awake," John sighed, crouching down and helping Caleb haul Dean to his feet. The teenager groaned in pain, his head lolling to his chest as the room tilted.

"Whoa, buddy!" Caleb called out when he felt the young man's body go limp. Dean tried to talk again but just succeeded in bringing on a tired sounding coughing fit.

Both hunters half carried the heavily medicated teen over to a chair in the corner of the room and sat him down.

"I wanna see him, Dad," the pale boy slurred, his eyes unfocused and only half open. The exhaustion and sedative effects of the antihistamines he had been given were finally getting to be too much for his tired body to resist.

"Okay, but just for a minute," John relented. "You need to get home to bed, Dean."

"What'd the doctor say?" Dean asked, accepting the help his dad and Caleb offered to get him on his feet.

"He's off the ventilator, but he has a long way to go. They've just given him something for the pain and he has to be careful and try not to move at all until they've done more tests to determine how severe the damage is," John answered, watching as Dean nodded and took a deep breath. His legs were still shaky and weak, so he kept a steadying hand on his son's uninjured arm.

Grateful for his father's assistance, Dean set off slowly toward his brother's room. He had to keep it together for Sammy.

"Hey, sammich!" Caleb said cheerfully, breaking the silence as the three hunters entered the sterile room.

Sam was still flat on his back and appeared to be much calmer. A collar had been placed around his neck to minimize movement since he was now conscious and a nasal cannula replaced the ventilator. Medical paraphernalia and machines beeped and clicked all around his bed, and IVs and wires snaked from his arms. Dean felt his chest tighten again as his eyes met with the metal traction holding his brother's hips and legs in place. This was too much.

"It's about time you woke up, buddy." John smiled, feeling relief wash over him at seeing his youngest's eyes open. He could hear Dean's wheezy breaths at his side and reached a hand out, placing it on the teen's back, afraid he was on the verge of collapse.

"Hi," Sam croaked, his heavy eyes searching out his brother. Dean shifted uncomfortably when he saw Sam's eyes stop on him. "Hey, Dean."

"Hey," Dean replied, clearing his tight throat and looking down at his boots. He could really have done with using his inhaler, but didn't want to draw attention to himself. All that mattered was Sammy.

"Are you all right?" he heard Sam ask him in a low slurring voice. How can he ask me that? He's the one in the hospital bed!

"Yeah, I'm good," he said, looking up briefly to flash his sibling a fake smile, the one that he had perfected a long time ago.

"Don't let him fool ya, kid. He was a mess when they brought him in," Caleb chimed in, ignoring the glare that Dean sent his way. "He was having the mother of all asthma attacks, his head was bleeding like a bitch, and his arm was doing a Gumby imitation – he had surgery and everything. You two are a coupla walking miracles."

Sam snorted, swallowing hard.

"Didn't ya hear, Caleb? I prolly won't be walking anywhere ever again," Sam sighed. He felt his heart rate pick up speed again as he thought about what the doctor had told him mere minutes before, but his brain was cloudy and everything was muffled; he couldn't think straight.

"I didn't mean -."

"It's okay. Sorry you can't joke about me the way you can about Dean. I mean, this isn't somethin' you can just fix with a little oxygen, meds 'an a cast. I'm a freakin' cripple and..." the teen's words trailed off as he succumbed to the drugs in his system. His eyelids drooped shut and he was asleep within seconds.

Caleb shut his eyes, holding in the sigh of frustration that he wanted to let out. That was gonna hit Dean like a freight train going a hundred miles an hour. Might as well run over him a few times with a big old steamroller carrying a gallon of guilt while you're at it, Sammy.

He opened his eyes again when John started talking, immediately looking over at Dean – or where Dean had been standing. The teen was nowhere to be seen, having escaped the room silently.

Dammit, Caleb! he cursed himself. Way to open your mouth and shove your entire friggin' leg in it!

Leaving John at Sam's bedside, Caleb left the room in search of Dean. He found him quickly. He was sitting back in the empty waiting room. His head rested against the wall at his back and his eyes were closed. He was taking noticeable slow, deep breaths as his chest rose and fell faster than normal, and the older hunter's eyes drifted to the inhaler that was gripped tightly in the teen's good hand, which rested on his knee. He looked so forlorn sitting there that Caleb almost turned around to call Jim in as reinforcement, but he knew it was up to him. Dean was practically oozing guilt from his pores; Caleb couldn't just leave him to his own devices.

He lowered himself into the uncomfortable chair beside Dean, not sure what he should say. The last time he'd tried talking to lighten the room obviously hadn't turned out so well.

"Look. I'm an ass," Caleb finally burst out after the silence threatened to stretch into eternity. "My mouth runs ahead of my brain and I just can't help it."

"It's okay," Dean mumbled, opening his eyes and sitting forward. "Not your fault."

"Yeah, it is. Sam didn't mean it, Dean. He's just dealing with a lot right now and he's scared. He wouldn't hurt you on purpose, Shortie," Caleb said, placing his hand between Dean's heaving shoulder blades and beginning to rub small circles. Dean wasn't exactly short but he was in comparison to Caleb's 6ft 4 frame. In addition, Sam was just twelve and had already caught up to his older brother in height, much to Dean's annoyance.

"Wouldn't he?" Dean shot back, glaring at Caleb through glassy, tired eyes, and standing abruptly to get rid of the hand on his back, groaning in pain as his arm throbbed with the movement.

"No way he would," Caleb stated emphatically.

"Well, I guess we're not talking about the same person, then," the angry teenager spat out.

"The bottom line is that it's my fault, no matter how you put it. If I had listened to Dad's order and stayed where I was supposed to be, then none of this shit would have happened." Dean was finding it harder to breathe and his vision was blurring. He swallowed hard as he started to sway.

Caleb stood and reached out to place a hand on Dean's arm, but he twisted away.

"Get lost, Caleb! No one asked you to be here, anyway!" he snarled. "Why don't you go try to console Sam, instead? He's the one that can't walk!"

With that, Caleb was left standing alone as Dean brushed past him before he slammed through the fire door into the stairwell, the heavy door clanging shut loudly behind him.

Caleb dropped back into the chair, deciding that what he needed was one giant roll of duct tape so he wouldn't be in any danger of making things even worse. Sighing, he wondered if he would be able to find a doctor who would be willing to staple his lips shut before he reinforced them with the duct tape.


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter Eight_

**The past is our definition. We may strive, with good reason, to escape it, or to escape what is bad in it, but we will escape it only by adding something better to it. **

Dean had only descended two flights of the drafty stairwell when he was forced to stop, dark spots beginning to cloud his vision as he struggled for air. He held on to the banister and slumped down sluggishly onto the cold stone steps. He knew if he kept going he'd be in serious danger of taking a nosedive and adding to his laundry list of injuries. That was definitely something he didn't need.

The young hunter had enough heavy-duty painkillers and Benadryl in his system to sedate a horse and he'd been successful in ignoring his body's demand for rest so far, but now he knew he couldn't fight it anymore. His overwhelming need for sleep was winning the battle with his stubbornness and he blinked rapidly, trying to stop the light-headed feeling that had enveloped him. He couldn't remember ever feeling this ridiculously tired in his life.

He could feel his eyelids grow heavier by the moment, so he let them droop and rested his head against the cold wall at his side, taking a few deep breaths through his nose and letting them out through his mouth in hopes of calming his rapid heartbeat. Yawning, he listened to the heavy rain pelt against the tall, church-like windows and tried desperately to will the world to stop spinning. His arms and legs were beginning to feel like they were weighted down with lead. He'd just rest for a minute, catch his breath, then he'd get back to Sam.

"There you are! Jesus, Dean, you're not exactly in the best shape to go disappearing on us," he heard his father's gravelly voice break through his sluggish thoughts. Slower than he would have liked, he licked his dry lips and snapped his eyes open, as if he had broken some law by closing them in the first place.

"Sorry, I uh, just needed some air," he rasped, sitting himself up straighter, grinding his teeth at the now constant pulsing pain of his arm. He could feel the exact location of his stitches under the cast because every time he moved, they caught and pulled.

"You look about ready to pass out, Dean," John sighed, sitting down on the cold step next to his son and handing him a bottle of water. He opened his palm to reveal three large pills, two white and one banana yellow.

Dean raised an eyebrow, his dazed mind forgetting and lifting the one that sported a row of seven neat stitches. Man, there isn't a single part of me that isn't hurting right now .

John dropped the pills into his son's shaky hand. His dad was always prepared, Dean thought. Well, almost always.

"Antibiotic and pain killers," John informed him. "Down the hatch, kiddo." John was well aware that his son was sixteen now and very capable of making his own decisions, but he also knew that if it had to do with his health, Dean would suffer in silence. John knew he had to take over here and make sure his son was looked after.

The exhausted teenager suppressed the urge to tut at his father. What the hell? Had it escaped his father's notice that he was no longer five?

"I hate these stupid things, Dad; they just make me feel spaced out," he huffed, throwing the pills in his mouth anyway and swigging from the bottle of water. He relished the cold liquid as it soothed his irritated throat.

"You'll feel a lot worse if that arm gets infected or your lungs don't clear up, so quit bitchin' and do as you're told. When you get home, I want you to make sure you eat something, then I want you to relax and get some sleep. I already called Marla and she's gonna have something ready for you. You need to eat to keep your strength up. I don't want you ending up back in here, Dean, got it?"

Dean nodded. He secretly couldn't wait for the wonderful numbing effects of the painkillers to kick in and give him some relief from the burning agony in his arm. He hoped that the drugs would also dull the pain that had nothing whatsoever to do with his arm. Wouldn't that be great? To have a drug that numbed all the pain he kept locked up inside, so deep that it was imprinted on his soul.

The tight invisible band around his chest had yet to ease up, which if he was being honest, worried him a little.

"You okay?" his concerned father asked, frowning as his boy closed his eyes again, nostrils flaring, shoulders and chest heaving as he dragged in whistling breaths.

Those were Dean's tells; they were how John was able to gauge the state of his son's asthma. Dean had been known to use the ailment to skip school, so over time, John had grown to know whether his son was faking or not. The way Dean's chest and shoulders heaved rapidly and his nostrils flared as he fought to pull in air - those were the two things he kept an eye out for, especially on a hunt. If they were present, he knew Dean was struggling.

"You're breathing's sounding pretty rough, Dean. Stay put - I'll get a doctor," John blurted out in a panicked voice. Dean grasped at his father's sleeve tiredly before he had a chance to stand up.

"Dad, quite overreacting, okay?" he sighed, slipping his inhaler from the scrubs pocket and shaking vigorously. "'m a little wheezy. It's just everything that's happened, and all that dust I inhaled is still bothering me - and I guess I'm just really tired," he admitted breathlessly as he inhaled the medicine deep into his rigid lungs and fought off another bout of coughing. As if things weren't bad enough right now, his asthma was having a friggin' field day.

"You'll feel better once you have a good night's sleep, son," John smiled, rubbing the back of his son's neck affectionately. Dean had to admit that rest sounded freakin' _awesome_.

"What about Sam, Dad? Is he gonna be all right?" Dean took a deep breath, which still carried a husky wheeze. "I mean is he _really_ gonna be all right? No bullshit. I'm not a kid anymore."

John emotions swelled to the surface and he found it hard to speak. Dean was staring at him with those intense green eyes that could bore into his very soul. Mary used to say it was as if Dean had an old soul; he could see the real person in everyone. There was no fooling Dean Winchester, and that was just one quality of many that his son possessed that John was proud of.

"I honestly don't know," John finally answered, his voice breaking even as he tried to stop it. "Whatever happens, we gotta be strong for him, okay?"

"Okay," Dean nodded.

"I know I haven't been the best dad to both of you, and God knows I've made my fair share of mistakes, but everything I've ever done has been for you and your brother. I know I haven't always got it right, but I always had your best interests' at heart. Nothing else matters to me except you and Sammy, Dean. You two are all I have." John ran a hand through his hair. God, this was hard. "Whatever happens, we'll be fine. I'll make sure of it, Dean. I promise."

--

Caleb glanced over at Dean, who was slumped against the passenger-side door, his eyes closed. He looked smaller than usual bundled in Caleb's big khaki parka, which John had to order him to put on. The poor kid had only slept a handful of hours over the course of the past four days, which Caleb knew was a combination of Dean punishing himself for his little brother's injuries and his worry over Sam's condition. Caleb had a sneaking suspicion that Dean was merely feigning sleep right now; the teen had been doing it nearly every time John told him to get some rest lately.

But John had put him in charge, so Dean was going to sleep whether he liked it or not. Caleb wasn't above slipping the teenager a few sleeping pills. He'd done it before and he felt no guilt whatsoever doing it again.

--

John couldn't remember the last time he had felt so bone tired. The uncomfortable chair at his son's bedside had done a number on his back and he gave a quick stretch before entering the house, trying to work the kinks out and failing.

He glanced at his watch as he put the key in the lock of the heavy mahogany door of the Murphy residence. 3:24 am the green, light-up numbers declared. He felt like the worst father in the world, leaving Sammy at the hospital, but Bobby was with him. He trusted his closest friend with both his sons' lives, and knowing the grizzled hunter was keeping watch right now helped to put John's restless mind at ease.

It had been five days and he really needed sleep. He'd managed a couple of hours here and there, but not much. His stomach rumbled with hunger and he was pretty sure he smelled way too rank for someone who had such easy access to a shower. He would have showered days ago, but he just couldn't bear to leave his youngest boy's side. Sam needed him.

The single father pushed open the large door as stealthily as he could and felt himself beginning to relax almost immediately when he felt the warmth from the open fire hit him. He locked the door behind him and dropped the keys into his pocket, hanging his wet jacket up on the coat hook. He kicked off his muddy boots and placed them neatly beside Dean's mud-caked sneakers.

Yawning, the scruffy hunter couldn't help but smile at the scene he was met with as he practically tip-toed into the warm living room.

Dean lay sprawled out on his back across the large comfy sofa, the congestion in his lungs making itself known through loud raspy snores. A heavy, white duvet had at one time covered his son, but had slid most of the way off, exposing half of Dean's boxer-clad body and one stockinged foot. A pillow lay forgotten on the floor beside the couch, having obviously been knocked aside during the young Winchester's deep sleep.

The orange glow from the fireplace lit up the 16-year-old's now relaxed face and John felt a sense of relief wash over him at the knowledge that his son was finally getting some much needed rest. His tired eyes drifted to the large coffee table at Dean's side that was littered with his son's various medications and an empty bowl that had once held Marla's famous vegetable soup, John guessed. The hungry hunter made a mental note to check and see if there was any left over - he really hoped there was.

Dean wasn't alone in the room. Caleb sat slumped in the leather recliner by the window. The seat had been moved slightly and John knew it was so that the hunter could keep a closer eye on his young charge. Sighing, John made his way over to the window by Caleb's head and although the heavy drapes were closed, he could see that the window was open, probably so Dean could have some fresh air. Leaning up, John closed the window and dropped the old patchwork blanket from behind the recliner over Caleb's sleeping form.

Everything was going to be okay. Sam was going to get better and everything was going to get back to normal. It had to.

--

The following week came and Sam hadn't made much progress. They had moved him from the PICU to the children's ward, where he was still hooked up to IV pain medication and the traction. The 12-year-old still had no feeling from his lower waist down, but the orthopedic pediatrician, Dr. Chang, seemed optimistic, assuring them that it was still very early in the injury and that according to Sam's latest MRI results, he still had extensive swelling in his spine. The specialist was fairly confident that when it went down, Sam would gradually get the feeling back in his legs. All they could do was wait. Wait and hope.

It was the waiting that was getting to everybody, driving them nuts. Sam was withdrawn and silent, John was snapping at anyone who ventured into his line of fire, and Dean was stressed to his limit, the guilt of what was happening to his brother weighing heavily on his shoulders and his health.

The teenager's asthma was as bad as ever. After suffering another attack during the night, John had scheduled an appointment at the hospital's pulmonary clinic. Dean at first refused to attend, as John had suspected he would do, but he would drag Dean there by the scruff of the neck if he had to. There was no way he was neglecting his son's health again.

--

Dr. McAllister sighed as he dropped his bag in the doctor's lounge and draped his stethoscope around his neck. He had a busy day ahead of him.

"Morning, Doctor," smiled Stacy, his nurse, as she stood up from her desk and handed him a bundle of patient charts.

"Your first appointment today is a new patient," she informed him.

"Thanks, Stace," he smiled back, winking at her as he turned and made his way down the hall to his office.

Just what he needed, another new patient, the doctor thought as he settled at his desk and flipped open the chart. His heart skipped a beat as his eyes landed on his new patient's name: Dean Michael Winchester.

It couldn't be, could it? His heart was slamming against his ribs as he checked the date of birth and next of kin. He couldn't believe what he was seeing; after all these years of searching for them, and WHAM! Just like that, when he was least expecting it, they show up.

--

John flipped through the pages of Motor Trend, trying to ignore the constant, pointed sighs that Dean kept sending his way. When his eldest attempted an especially deep and long exhale since all of his previous ones had absolutely zero effect on John, he broke into a coughing fit that doubled him over and left him gasping for breath.

"You're not getting out of this appointment, Dean, and you just helped me prove my case, so enough with the sighs," John said firmly as he rubbed the heaving back soothingly. He watched Dean carefully, looking for any sign that he wasn't going to be able to get his breathing under control again, but soon his son was sitting up once more, looking nothing more than out of breath.

When Dean could talk easily enough, he started in on his father yet again.

"Why can't we just go see Sam? He'll be wondering why we're late!" he pleaded, dangerously close to whining. "I'm fine, Dad!"

"You're fine? What do you call your little hacking attack a few seconds ago?" John asked, raising an eyebrow at his son's blatant lie. Dean stared back for a few moments before looking away and sinking back into his chair, arms folded across his chest.

"This is stupid," he muttered.

"What?" John replied sharply, tired of Dean's attitude and his refusal to get help for himself. Ever since Sam had gotten hurt and Dean had come out of his silent funk, it was almost like he was trying to get John angry, as if he wanted to be yelled at or punished.

"Nothing. I was just saying that this is a really good idea, Dad." Dean's words were delivered much too cheerfully to be believable and his fake, plastered-on smile didn't fool John for a second. But then, that was probably the point. _Teenagers._

"Dean, listen to me. You are going to this appointment, and you are going to do whatever the doctor tells you to do. I don't care what you want. I'm not risking your life because you're too stubborn to take care of yourself. I let you run out of your inhaler and you almost died; it's not going to happen again. Do I make myself clear?" When Dean's eyes slid sullenly away and he didn't respond, John felt his pulse sky-rocket, but forced himself to stay calm. "Dean?"

"Yeah. Whatever," he answered insolently, his angry green eyes landing again on John's, the dare in them plain as day. Mary would have been proud of the way John totally ignored it, choosing instead to go back to reading about the wonders of exotic sports cars that 99 of the population would never be able to afford.

He also didn't let on that he heard Dean's barely audible sigh of disappointment when he refused to rise to the bait. John had only just started considering what would be causing his son's uncharacteristic behavior when a nurse called out Dean's name.

"Right here," Dean replied, leaving the hated parka on the chair where he'd draped it as soon as they'd entered the waiting room. John stood to follow his son, but Dean shot him a look that had him stopping halfway out of the chair.

"I'm not six," he snapped. "I don't need my hand held." And with that he was headed across the waiting room, John now the lone occupant of the large, pale green room. He dropped back into his chair, feeling like he'd just been kicked in the gut. Something was definitely wrong with his son.

--

Dean was sure that this doctor was some kind of whackjob. He looked at him funny when he entered the room – actually, he _stared_ at him. If Dean hadn't known better, he could of sworn he saw a tear in the guy's eye, and never one to trust the medical establishment, his suspicion of the man immediately shot up.

"Hi, Dean," the tall man said cheerily, clipboard in hand. "I'm Dr. McAllister. How are we feeling today?"

"_I'm_ feeling fine," Dean snapped. "Just like I told my dad a thousand times." He really did not want to be there.

The doctor didn't seem affected at all by his words, just continued on calmly as he sat down across from Dean, who was sitting in a plastic chair instead of on the exam table.

"Well, I've looked at your records, Dean, and you shouldn't be feeling well. In fact, I'd be surprised if you've felt well at all in the recent past."

"It's asthma - big freakin' deal. My brother is _paralyzed_." Probably won't ever walk again.

"We're not here to talk about your brother; we're here to talk about you and get you feeling better, all right?" Dr. McAllister said seriously, obviously waiting for Dean to agree with him. Which he didn't, but he reluctantly agreed anyway. The sooner he could get out of here, the sooner he could get back to Sam.

"Great. Let's go over your history first. When did you first start experiencing attacks?" he asked, clicking his pen in preparation to scribble down Dean's answer.

"Do you think I just got asthma last week?" Dean replied condescendingly. "I've had it my whole _life_."

"Yeah, I know." Dean raised an eyebrow at the man's words. _What the hell - this dude is freakin' me out!_

"Uh... I mean, it's here in your chart," the doctor quickly added, fumbling over his words. Dean wondered why the doctor seemed so nervous. He was starting to wish he had allowed his dad to come in with him.

"Okay, how about triggers?" he asked, moving on. Dean recited the usual litany of answers in response to the all of the doctor's questions. They must teach them at med school to ask the exact same questions in the exact same order every time. At least, that's what Dean thought until the doctor's next question.

"How about a history of where you've lived?"

"What? What does that have to do with anything?" Dean asked suspiciously.

"It's so I can see if your attacks have been affected by various climates. Of course, if you've only lived in one place, that won't be so helpful," he replied smoothly, and after a pause, he continued. "So have you lived in different areas?"

"Yeah."

"Such as?" Dr. McAllister prompted.

"We've lived a lot of places," Dean answered cautiously. "My dad's job requires him to move a lot."

"Really? What does he do?"

"He sells Bibles door-to-door," Dean said sarcastically. "And vacuum cleaners. He tried to get into the baby selling industry, but there were just too many sleazy douche bags in it for him to feel comfortable." He shrugged, smirking at the doctor.

"What about your mom? What does she do?" he asked, looking down at the clipboard in his hands for the first time.

"She's dead," Dean said flatly. "Thanks for bringing it up." _Asshole._

"I'm sorry," Dr. McAllister answered, and Dean had the uneasy feeling that the man had expected his answer. He seemed...sad. Something was definitely up with this guy. "Well, why don't we get on with the examination, then?"

"Yeah, why don't we?" Dean shot back, feigning cheerfulness as he stiffly worked the hospital gown off his shoulders. He was glad that the nurse had only asked that he remove his shirt, because he'd had enough of the indignity of hospital gowns lately.

As Dr. McAllister began his examination with listening to his lungs and checking his peak-flow, Dean had to hold back a long suffering sigh, immensely bored with the whole process and desperately wanting to be away.

The doctor, for his part, was shocked at the scars that marked the teenager's torso. He was especially disturbed by the ones that looked like stab wounds and one that looked suspiciously like a bullet wound. _What the hell has John been doing to you, Dean? God, if Mary were alive, she'd be sick at seeing you like this!_

Dean noticed the abrupt silence and was suddenly very aware of what could be the only reason: his scars. He barely ever remembered them, forgetting what they must look like to an outsider. He shifted uncomfortably.

"Are we about done here?" He forced the worry out of his voice, managing to sound annoyed more than anything else. He was really starting to get creeped out; the guy hadn't stopped looking at him since he'd walked in the room! _What is he, some kinda perv?_

"Dean," the doctor began carefully, and Dean knew what was coming next. "How did you get these scars?"

"I'm into motocross," Dean answered smoothly, looking him straight in the eye. His dad had taught him that early on: if you avoided eye contact, it was a dead give-away that you were lying. Eye contact was good, especially if you could hold it longer than the other person.

The doctor was silent for a few long moments and Dean never once glanced away.

"Are you sure, Dean? Because you can tell me anything."

"Do you get paid by the word or what?" Dean snapped, the constant questioning irritating him to no end. "I told you! I'm into motocross. And I'm obviously not very good at it!"

"Fine," Dr. McAllister said after another pause, sighing as he turned around. "You can put your shirt back on."

_Thank God_, Dean thought with relief, making a mental note to tell his dad about the nosy doctor as he began to change back into his own shirt.

"I'm going to prescribe you two steroid inhalers for you to take twice a day. I also think you would benefit from a nebulizer at home. The chest infection has cleared up nicely but your asthma is obviously very unstable. I'm going to give you a diary and a peak flow meter so you can record the readings for me. We need to get you feeling better again, okay?"

Dean just glared at him when he handed over the small plastic bag containing the peak flow meter, diary and his prescription.

--

John couldn't take it anymore; he needed to be in with his son and hear for himself what the doctor had to say, because God knew he wasn't going to get anything remotely close to the full truth from Dean. His cranky son was definitely not going to be happy, but the fact was, he was still a minor, so John could just tell him to suck it up because he was staying.

Walking over to the nurses' desk, he caught the attention of the nurse in the spotted scrubs who had lead Dean into the maze of exam rooms behind the double doors. She smiled at him as he neared.

"How can I help you, sir?" she asked.

"My son is in one of the exam rooms and I want to be in there with him when he meets with the doctor. His name is Dean Winchester."

"The doctor's in with him right now, Mr. Winchester. I'm sure he'll give you a full report when he's done," she replied, looking twitchy as the phone started to ring.

"I'd rather have it now. He's a minor, so it's my decision."

She gave a harried sigh and pointed to the white doors leading to the exam rooms. "Through there, turn left and it's the second door on the right." She didn't even look as John immediately headed for the doors, the phone already to her ear. "Pulmonary, this is Stacy."

John knocked twice on the door before cracking it open slightly, entering only when he heard a slightly familiar voice give him the go ahead. The doctor's back was to him as he scribbled away on a clipboard resting on the counter, so John just quietly shut the door behind him and walked toward his son.

"I told you I didn't need you in here," Dean reminded him sourly as he struggled to put his t-shirt back on. John stepped closer and helped him, tugging the shirt over his son's head and down his back.

"Yeah, well maybe _I_ needed to be in here, buddy," John replied, ignoring the acerbic look Dean sent his way. "Besides, we both know that if I want to really know what's going on, I'm not going to find out from you, am I?"

Dean had the good grace to look slightly guilty, if only for a fraction of a fraction of a second.

Neither of the Winchesters noticed that Dr. McAllister had stopped writing and was listening intently to their conversation. He knew when he turned around that John's reaction wasn't going to be a good one.

John was in mid-sentence, assuring Dean that Sam wasn't alone, that some guy named Bobby was with him, when Dr. McAllister turned around.

"Hi, Johnny," he said when silence suddenly descended upon the room like someone had flicked a switch. Dean looked at him with open curiosity, eyes flicking between his father and the doctor.

John's look of shock quickly transformed into one of utter animosity, his eyes boring holes into Dr. McAllister.

"Nathan," he ground out. Never taking his eyes off the man, he spoke to Dean. "Come on, Dean. We're leaving. Now."

"Dad -," Dean replied, only to be cut off.

"Now, Dean!" John said sharply, Dean immediately slid off the table and headed for the door, his father close behind him.

"John, wait -."

"Stay the hell away from my family, Nathan!" John snarled. "I mean it!"

As Dean pulled the door open and started down the hallway, he heard Nathan call after them. "But they're my nephews , John! You have no right-." _He's our uncle_ Dean thought incredulously, not sure that he'd heard right.

"They're my sons! And I don't want you anywhere near them!" He pulled the door shut with a loud slam and followed his son into the waiting room.

Nathan watched the Winchesters push through the glass front doors and then turned to his nurse.

"Stacy, call Child Protective Services."


	9. Chapter 9

_**Chapter Nine**_

**We all grow up with the weight of history on us. Our ancestors dwell in the attics of our brains as they do in the spiraling chains of knowledge hidden in every cell of our bodies. **

John's blood was boiling as he stalked away from his brother-in-law - his childhood best friend, his past.

Their long-time friendship soured not long after John professed to seeing his wife burn to death on the ceiling. Nathan, suspecting that the young father was suffering from some sort of breakdown, mentioned to John that perhaps he needed to seek professional help. This, of course, did not go over well with John at all. When he learned that his own parents believed him mentally unstable and not fit to take care of his own children, John knew that the best thing he could do was to get as far away from his family and friends as possible. He had already lost Mary; losing his boys would kill him.

When Missouri Mosley confirmed that he was in fact not stark-raving crazy, the recently widowed father made the decision to leave Kansas and find out as much as possible about the supernatural and the thing that took the mother of his children. Missouri gave him a list of people who would be able to help him - 'contacts', she had called them.

And so had begun the quest that had consumed his life ever since. The heartache and hate that Mary's loss created in him still remained, as well as the fear that the same thing that happened to his wife would happen to Dean and Sam. He'd been training them for years to help ensure that they would be safe, but the fact remained that they were just boys – boys who knew 37 ways to kill evil spirits and could recite an exorcism from memory, but still boys. He hated that he had to raise them as soldiers, but he had no other choice.

"Dad!"

John was pulled from his thoughts as he stood stabbing the button to the large elevator. He had to get to the pediatrics floor, to Sammy.

"What the hell was that about? Dad? DAD!" Dean asked, slightly out of breath after running to catch up with him. He followed his father into the spacious and thankfully empty elevator.

"Why did that doctor just say he was our uncle? What's goin' on? Dad?" Dean demanded, staring up at his father. He watched as John ran a tired hand over his stubbly face, pacing up and down like a caged animal. There were only a handful of times Dean had seen his father looking this panicked. Fear was slowly taking hold of the teenager, his heart slamming hard against his ribs. As if things weren't bad enough for them right now.

"DAD!" the tired teen shouted, trying to get his father's attention. He'd been calling out to him since they left the pulmonary floor, but John had yet to answer.

"I can't think with you yapping in my ear! Just be quiet and let me think about this!" he roared back, gripping his boy by the shoulders and shaking him slightly, momentarily forgetting about his son's injuries. The jostling caused Dean to yelp out in pain and stumble back, knocking his severely bruised back and shoulders into the wall behind him. Dean whimpered and felt his knees buckle a little as he fought to breathe through the pain, gritting his teeth and closing his eyes as his vision swam and started to blur.

"Fuck!" John cursed his own stupidity, steadying his son with an arm around his waist.

"I'm really sorry kiddo, Are you okay? I just. I -" John sighed, gently taking Dean by his good arm and guiding him out of the elevator as the doors opened onto the bright and colorful corridor just outside the children's ward.

"S'okay. I'm all right." Dean mumbled after he'd caught his breath. He blinked away the dizziness as his back and arm throbbed relentlessly. What he wouldn't do for some hardcore painkillers right now.

"Come on, sit down for a minute. Take a breather," John ordered, leading the shaky teen over to a row of chairs next to the nurses' station and helping him sit down. He slumped down into the seat beside his son with a sigh.

"Dr. McAlli...Nathan - he ah .. he _is_ your uncle Dean," John started. Dean's eyes went wide as he glanced sideways at his father, who sat tapping his foot nervously against the floor. This was all just too fucking much to deal with right now.

"He's your mom's twin brother. He _was_ my best friend." Dean had no clue his mother had any siblings; he had always just assumed she had been an only child because his dad had never mentioned otherwise.

"Then why were you so pissed at him?" Dean asked cautiously.

John took a deep breath and blew, causing his cheeks to puff out. He rubbed a hand over the growing tension headache above his left eyebrow.

"It's complicated, Dean. When your mom died, I was a mess. It took all I had just to get outta bed in the mornings. If it wasn't for you and your brother, I don't think I would have survived," he admitted, every word the truth. John wasn't ashamed to admit that he had thought about ending it all more than once; he had two reasons that stopped him each time the dark thoughts had entered his head, and one of those reasons was sitting by his side now.

Dean felt a hard knot grow in his throat and he fought to swallow it down.

"For a while I thought I was going mad. What I saw that night…I mean, there was no logical explanation. My folks were all for checking me into a mental hospital. Everybody thought I was having a breakdown. Julie, Nathan's wife, took care of you guys for awhile. Then I went to see a psychic and she told me that what I saw that night was real, and she gave me Pastor Jim's and Bobby's addresses. After a few weeks of research, I understood a bit more.

"Nathan decided that I had finally lost it and tried to get me to hand you and Sam over to them and get some professional help. Then protective services got involved and there was a real possibility that you two would be taken from me, so I ran. I bundled you boys in the car and took off. And here we are."

"I remember," Dean's voice was husky and just above a whisper. He remembered, not very clearly, but he had vague memory flashes which still haunted his dreams some nights. He remembered the night his mom died, everything about it: what his dad said to him and carrying Sammy out of the house. He remembered the night he and Sammy were huddled in the backseat of the Impala, driving for what felt like days and days. But he had no recollection of Nathan or any other family members.

John glanced at his son.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he said, reaching up to rub his hand through his son's hair and ruffling it. He frowned at how warm the boy felt and made a mental note to have his temperature checked.

"We're gonna have to get away from here. There's no way I'm taking the chance of Nathan trying to take you boys from me."

"What!" Dean snapped sitting up from his slouched position in the chair. Adrenaline rushed through his vein as the thought of his small family being separated took root in his brain.

"What do you mean, Dad? Do you think he will? He can't do that, can he? He can't - I won't.. he.. I..." Dean swallowed hard, feeling his breath shorten.

"Dean, calm yourself down right now," John ordered sternly as he watched the teenager get himself worked up. The single father knew his son should be at home in bed resting, but things where just never that simple for them. And the thought of taking Sam from the hospital before he was ready turned John's stomach, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He'd do what he had to if it meant keeping his family together.

"Just let me worry about it, son. We're staying together, I promise you. As soon as we need to, we'll take Sam outta here and leave."

"But Dad, Sam's still too hurt. He only got out of traction yesterday!" Dean worried. He knew Sam couldn't even make it from the hospital bed on his own yet. Sure, the feeling had returned to his legs, but he was in alot of pain.

"I know, son, but Nathan works here and I can't risk him getting to Sam. We don't have a choice; we gotta go. He's probably got the wheels in motion already, but I'll tell you this now, Dean: If he wants to take you boys from me, it will have to be over my dead body."

Dean nodded. His dad was right, but that didn't stop him from panicking. Sam was still in a bad way. Hell, he was still feeling like crap himself. He was glad his father hadn't noticed the occasional chill that wracked his body; on the other hand, he'd been doing his best not to let it show. Sam was worse off than he was, so Dean wasn't going to make a scene just because he was a little cold. Besides, their dad had more important things to worry about, like keeping them together.

Dean glanced back over at his dad when he remained silent. He had a look of deep concentration on his face and the two lines between his eyebrows that only showed up when he was worried were etched deeply into his skin. It only made Dean feel worse about their situation and his good hand picked unconsciously at his worn jeans.

"Okay. I'm gonna go get the car ready and bring it around the side. Go stay with your brother and tell him I'll be there in a few minutes. Caleb's in there, so tell him and Sam that we're leaving. I'm not taking any chances. We're leaving now," John finally said, having come to a conclusion. It was hasty, but better safe than sorry.

John stood up and affectionately mussed his son's hair, his own, awkward way of showing his love for his eldest, and took off back to the elevators. When the elevator doors didn't slide open immediately, he shoved through the fire door into the stairwell and descended them two at a time. Dean had a fair idea of where his pissed-off father was headed. _Super._

Sighing wheezily and stifling a cough, Dean rubbed his good hand against his tired eyes and grunted in pain as he got up from the hard plastic chair. Glancing up at the giant, elephant-shaped clock on the bright green wall above him, Dean whimpered almost inaudibly. He should have had his pain meds at least twenty minutes ago, but they were in his bag in the Impala, and there was no way he was dragging himself all the way to the parking lot. The way he was feeling, he'd be ecstatic if he could just make it to Sammy's bedside without taking a swan dive onto the gleaming white of the sterile floor. Slowly but surely he headed towards the large six-bed ward in front of him with the giant, boldly-colored words 'Rainbow Unit' decorating the entrance arch.

Dean was glad that Sam was no longer in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit.He hated it in there. He'd spent a few times in the PICU himself over the years and it was definitely not at the top of his Nice Places to Be list. He knew Sammy must be getting better for his doctor to have moved him to a regular ward and taken him out of traction and off the IV morphine. Dean had to squint at the bright murals of various cartoon and Disney characters that assaulted his eyes as the large sliding door opened. The 'Rainbow Unit' was way too colorful for Dean's liking, but he was glad that, considering Sammy's ever-present clown phobia, at least there were no clowns amongst the numerous, too-perky characters adorning the walls.

A very hot nurse wearing "Mickey Mouse on skis" scrubs was standing just inside the door, scribbling something on a bright yellow chart. Dean was momentarily shocked at her striking resemblance to Carmen Electra. He blinked at her owlishly, wondering if he was delirious and just imagining her. The young nurse gave Dean a concerned look as he shuffled past her trying not to make eye contact. He blushed when her bright blue eyes caught his.

"Ya okay there, sweet pea?" she drawled, taking in his hunched form and pale appearance. Her eyebrows knitted together when she picked up the raspy wheeze that accompanied his every breath. Dean knew she must have thought he was a patient. Hell, most of the kids around him in hospital gowns looked to be in better health. Glancing past her, he saw his brother three beds down. Sam looked like he was asleep and the animal patterned covers were pulled up to his shoulders.

"Yes, ma'am," he answered politely, clearing his throat. He hated the way she was looking at him, like he was a fucking modern-day Oliver Twist.

"I'm just here to see my little brother," he added, stifling a yawn. For a second, he envied the patients in the beds around him; he wished he could just lie down, close his eyes and forget the world for a few hours.

"Dean," Caleb said as he came up behind him. He had a vending machine coffee in his hand and a newspaper tucked under his arm. The 16-year-old smiled at his friend for his impeccable timing. Caleb raised an eyebrow at the sight of the big-boobed, blonde-haired nurse, instantly wondering if it was possible to get laid on a pediatrics ward.

"Well, hello," he smirked, running his eyes up and down the nurse's slender frame. She just raised an eyebrow at him before smiling back.

"My nephew here's not causing any trouble, I hope," he asked, stepping closer to Dean and placing an arm around his shoulder, which Dean immediately tried to shrug off, scowling at the older hunter.

"No, not at all," she said, pouting. Dean rolled his eyes - she was flirting back. _Typical Caleb, guy could find action at a freakin' lesbian barbecue._

"I was just asking if he was okay," Nurse Boobs continued sympathetically. "He's a little pale and that chest's not sounding too good, either." She reached over and brushed her soft hand over Dean's sweaty forehead. The teen flinched away from her touch. As much as she was hot, he didn't want her touching him. Well, not his forehead, anyway.

Caleb looked over Dean critically, took in the clenched set of his jaw, the tense way he was holding himself and the sheen of sweat covering his pallid face. He could tell the kid was in pain as his breath sawed in and out as he fought to stay in control.

"When was the last time you took your meds, Shorty?" he asked, concern lacing his words. Dean cringed at the use of his hated nickname, especially in front of Nurse Boobs, but he was tired so he decided to let it slide just this once.

"I was s'posed to awhile ago, but they're in the car. It doesn't matter any way, though. It doesn't hurt that bad," he lied. The fiery pain coursing up his arm was making him nauseous and light headed.

"For Gods sakes, Dean," Caleb berated, all thoughts of flirting with the nurse gone. "Where's your dad?"

Dean bristled and glared up at the hunter. "It's a long story. He said he'd be back soon," he snapped, wishing the hot nurse would leave so they could talk.

Caleb let out a long breath and ran a hand through his hair. He turned to the nurse, smiling again.

"Um - sorry, what's your name?"

"Sherry." She smiled, flashing her bright pearly whites at Caleb.

"Sherry, nice name." Caleb grinned at her, a vision of her washing his car in a bikini flashed into his mind and he physically shook his head to get rid of the fantasy. _Focus, man!_

"Uh, Sherry, my nephew here was in an accident and badly broke his arm, amongst other things, and he's been really sick, too." Dean cringed at Caleb's words. He hated people knowing his personal business, especially when it emphasized his weaknesses.

"He just got out of here himself and he's been in a lot of pain, but his meds are in the car, which unfortunately, my brother has stupidly taken with him. Is there any way we could get him something to tide him over?" It was worth a try. He added in another smoldering smile to help persuade her.

"I'm not sure if we'll be able to give him anything since he's not a patient, but I'll go speak with Dr. Chang and see what we can do," she said, smiling again.

"I'll be back in a sec, honey, you go sit down with your brother." Sherry smiled sympathetically at Dean, winking at Caleb before rushing off.

"Damn, she's a stunner, eh? You okay?" Caleb asked, turning to face his young charge.

Dean nodded. His good hand was rubbing against his sling as the burning pain gnawed away at him relentlessly. "Caleb, somethin' really weird just happened," he said taking a deep breath as he prepared himself to tell his friend what he knew, which was in fact very little.

"The doctor I saw downstairs at my check up is my uncle," Dean mumbled. Caleb's eyes went wide. He put his arm around Dean's shoulders and led him slowly towards Sam's bed. He could feel the teen trembling.

"He just blurted it out. Dad's really pissed and he looked like he wanted to cave the guy's head in. He just brought me up here then took off. I bet he's gone back down there. I wanna know what the hell's going on man!" Dean's voice was raising with each sentence. The situation, lack of sleep and pain where all getting to the middle Winchester.

"Okay, just calm down before you blow a fuse. I can't have you going all blue-lipped-boy on me dude, so chill." Caleb said calmy as they reached the sleeping Sam's bedside. He helped Dean ease down into the comfortable recliner next to his brother, and saw the relief cross the boy's face as he sank into the leather.

"I'm sure it's just some kind of misunderstanding or something," he lamely reassured Dean.

"Misunderstanding?" Dean gaped at Caleb. "Like what? The words 'They're my nephews, John' just accidentally slipped from his mouth?"

"Plus, Dad told me it's true," Dean added. He sighed dejectedly and rubbed at his temple with his good hand.

Caleb was stumped at what to say. _Typical John, fucking off and leaving me to deal with the boys._

"Look, Dean, I don't have a clue what's going on, man, so let's just wait till your dad gets back and see what he has to say, okay? Because it's probably nothing."

Dean didn't have the energy to argue back. He looked at his sleeping brother. He was happy to see that Sammy didn't have an IV morphine infusion pump attached to him anymore. He was no longer connected to an array of wires and machines, an IV of saline being the only thing connected to the port in the back of his hand. The pre-teen lay out flat with his broken leg raised on a pillow, the cast going from his toes to just under his knee. The drugs they where giving Sammy had him asleep most of the time. Dean was not looking forward to his dad coming to move his little brother.

Nurse Boobs suddenly appeared beside him with a small glass of water cupped in her hand. Smiling, she stopped in front of Dean, crouched down so she was at his level, and handed him two small, white pills.

"I had a word with Dr. Chang and I'm afraid all we can give you is some over-the-counter Tylenol, but it should take the edge off until you get your own medication," she smiled as she handed Dean the glass of water.

"Thanks." Dean smiled back gratefully, throwing the pills into his mouth and gulping down the entire glass of water. He doubted they would do much to squash the intense pain he was in or fend of the chills that where gradually getting worse, but they were better than nothing.


	10. Chapter 10

**Bricks and Water : Chapter Ten**

**AN: **Hey guys, it's been a while I know. I just hope your still interested in this story and plan on sticking with me. I had to have another operation which held me back from writing for a while. I finally feel like I've found my writing mojo again! So as long as you guys keep reviewing i'll keep writing. Thanks to all of you who take the time to review and send me PM's it's very much appreciated. The biggest thanks goes to my awesome beta and best friend Megan Casady AKA Smokeyhorse. She helps me make the Bricks verse come alive. Now on with the next chapter...

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**The father who would taste the essence of his fatherhood must turn back from the plane of his experience, take with him the fruits of his journey and begin again beside his child, marching step by step over the same old road. Angelo Patri **

John glanced in the rear-view mirror at the sound of another round of chesty coughs from his eldest and gripped the steering wheel tighter. They needed to find a motel room soon. The boys were both sleeping, Dean more restlessly than a heavily drugged Sam, and John knew they needed a decent bed for at least a few days. Preferably more.

Their flight from the hospital had been sudden and unexpected, to his sons as well as to the hospital staff. It had been tricky sneaking past the abundance of medical personnel, but they'd done it. They'd definitely had plenty of practice. This time had been made more nerve-wracking, though, by the presence of his brother-in-law and his holier-than-thou attitude, and Caleb's constant jibes about how much he sucked at fatherhood.

"We're stopping at the next town. I don't give a shit if it's freakin' suburbia hell; Dean and Sammy need beds, not bench seats," Caleb fumed, keeping his tone of voice low so as not to wake the two youngest Winchesters.

John bristled at the accusing tone, but as much as he hated to admit it, he knew Murphy was right. Scrubbing a hand across his eyes, he sighed and nodded.

"I know, Caleb," he admitted tiredly. "Christ, I know."

Caleb had opened his mouth to argue with John, ready to bring up a detailed, chronological list of Winchester's failings as a father and how he could use this opportunity to redeem himself., but when he'd sucked in a deep breath to get started, John's words finally registered. He snapped his mouth shut after realizing that it had been hanging open for several seconds, surprised that the Winchester patriarch had actually _agreed_ with him.

Half an hour later, the Impala was rumbling down Main Street - quite possibly, the _only_ street - in Deadman's Corner, Wyoming. John and Caleb both tried to ignore the irony and possible impending doom foretold by the burg's moniker.

They found the hotel at the end of the street, and as John parked the Impala in front of the dark office's door with the "Please ring doorbell for service" sign, Caleb spoke.

"Are you _kidding_ me?" he said incredulously. "The Cozy Coffin Motel? This is a joke, right?"

John raised an eyebrow. "I wish it were. But hey, at least their rooms are 'so quiet, you'll think you've died and gone to heaven'," he quipped as he read the motel's proudly-proclaimed promise to travelers, which was painted in red lettering across the glass door.

"I feel like we're tempting fate," Caleb grumbled as he climbed from the car.

"Stay with the boys," John ordered, quietly shutting his door. "I'll get us a room."

"I'm not sharin' a bed with you," Caleb said distastefully. "No way. I'd rather chew my arm off."

"I don't share. I'm sure the floor will be plenty comfortable for you, though."

Caleb glared indignantly after John as he rang the doorbell and waited for the caretaker, but quickly got bored watching him. He turned back and walked the few steps back to the car, peering into the back seat to check on the still sleeping Winchesters. The fact that they were still sleeping at all was a testament to how worn out they were. Normally, the two would have woken as soon as the Impala stopped – Dean, especially.

Sighing and leaning back against the side of the black Chevy, Caleb cursed John's stubbornness for the millionth time since leaving the hospital fourteen hours before. It had been rather intense during their _escape _from the hospital. John had shoved a list into his hands and ordered him to go to the hospital pharmacy to 'pick up' everything on the list. Caleb had huffed and shook his head when he asked how exactly he was supposed to _pick up _the long list of medications and medical supplies, but John simply rewarded him with a grin, a pat on the shoulder, and a "Use your initiative, son. I'm sure you'll manage. Now, move; we don't have all day." Caleb had glanced at the list, scribbled on an old, much-folded, rumpled piece of paper, and took off towards the pharmacy – after all, it had been an order.

Moving a sleeping and drugged Sam had been the most difficult part. The kid had only been out of traction for a little over 24 hours and was still in a lot of pain. Caleb could see the worry in John's eyes as the 12-year old hissed and winced as they situated him in the car, propping up his casted leg while trying to keep him as still as possible. Dean hadn't said much at all; he looked pale and exhausted, but he was also pissed at his father for not letting him know what the hell was going on. Caleb knew how the kid felt because he was in the dark, too.

Caleb pushed himself up from his lean against the Impala when John returned five minutes later, a set of keys to their room in hand.

"Room 115, all the way at the end," he said and Caleb turned and started to reach for the door handle. "Hey, you can walk your ass down there, princess."

John tossed him the keys and Caleb deftly caught them in mid-air, mumbling about John's cranky, pain in the ass, control-freak nature as the eldest Winchester started the car and headed down the pothole-filled parking lot towards their room. He drove so slowly – not wanting to jostle the boys, Caleb assumed – that Murphy made it to the black door of 115 before John even pulled up in front of it.

When he opened the door, he swore under his breath. The room was a hovel, worse than the roach motels they usually stayed in. He could have sworn he saw a mouse scurry out of sight as he opened the door, but he couldn't be sure due to the darkness. The moonlight dimly lit the room and Caleb noted that the beds were rumply and looked slept in and the trash can beside the door was full. He flicked on the light and cringed.

The green shag carpet was stained and badly in need of vacuuming. This time he did see the mouse as it ran from underneath the far bed into the dark bathroom.

Turning around at the sound of one of the Impala's doors creaking open, he spotted John turned talking quietly to Dean as he attempted to wake him, one foot on the cracked pavement of the parking lot.

"John," Caleb called. "We're not staying here."

There was no response at all and he hoped it was just because John hadn't heard him. Caleb pulled the door shut again and locked it before walking back to the car and sliding into the passenger seat.

"What the hell are you doing?" John asked. Caleb saw that Dean was awake, but barely.

"Go get your money back, cuz we're not staying here. This is bad even by _your_ standards, Winchester."

"Where are we?" Dean asked from the back seat, his voice slurred with sleep.

"No where you need to remember, Shorty," Caleb replied, staring John in the eyes. "Go back to sleep."

Dean grunted in reply and his glazed eyes immediately slid closed. He was too tired to care.

"No, Dean, don't go back to sleep. We're at the motel," John said, eyes still locked onto Caleb's.

"This place can't be an operating motel because I'm sure I saw a condemned sign and crime scene tape in our room. It's occupied anyway – Mickey Mouse and friends looked pretty busy, actually. We're leaving."

"No, we're not," John said. Caleb saw the muscles in the man's jaw popping as he clenched it in irritation. "It's fine."

"You don't believe me? Fine. Go take a look for yourself," Caleb snapped, throwing the keys at John, who barely caught them before they hit him in the face.

"Murphy," he warned as he glowered at the younger man. Caleb just stared back at him and waited for him to get out of the car to go look at the pathetic excuse for a motel room. After a few very long moments, John sighed and headed to the room.

Caleb didn't watch as he entered the room, instead turning around to find Dean's bleary, unfocused eyes looking at him. Sam was still sound asleep.

"How you holdin' up?" Caleb asked. It seemed to take Dean several seconds to process the words.

"Fine," he croaked finally, swallowing thickly. Caleb rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, you look like it," he retorted dryly.

"Where are we?" Dean asked, ignoring Caleb.

"The middle of butt-fuck nowhere, soon to be somewhere else that's probably deeper in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere." Caleb had to bite off the rest of his words about how if it wasn't for the hard-headedness of John Winchester, they could all be nice and cozy in the Murphy home, in a clean house with good food and warm beds, instead of sitting in the Impala in front of Hotel Horror.

Dean's only response was a disinterested "mmmm" before he closed his eyes again and leaned his head back against the cool window. Sam muttered something in his sleep and Caleb saw his good leg move from where his foot rested against the side of Dean's thigh. He attempted to roll slightly, his face scrunching up in obvious pain. The older boy didn't react at all and Caleb wasn't even sure he'd noticed.

He turned back to face the front. The room was fully lit and the door was wide open. Caleb could see John standing in the middle of the room as he surveyed the surroundings. When he returned to the car, Caleb was hoping that he had seen the light, but that turned out to be merely wishful thinking. He knew they were all screwed when John returned to the car without shutting the warped door behind himself.

"What's the problem?" John asked in irritation. "It's only for one night and we've stayed in worse."

Caleb gaped at him.

"You've stayed in _worse_? Jesus, John."

"Murphy, I'm gettin' damn tired of listening to you bitch!" John snapped, the warning in his voice loud and clear. "If the room offends your delicate senses that much, then you can sleep in the car."

Caleb knew when to keep pushing and now was definitely not one of those times, not unless he wanted to live out the rest of his years with his voice an octave higher and no chance of fathering children. Instead, he settled for keeping his rant to himself and once again climbed from the Winchester Beast, as he called it. His nickname for the Impala drove Dean nuts. Every time he heard Caleb refer to "her" that way, he spent at least five minutes beating it into the older man's head that his dad's car was a precision work of automotive art, finely tuned and closely tended, and she was _definitely_ not a beast.

Dean made his way slowly and stiffly from the car. John was hovering next to him, ready to catch him if he fell and occasionally reaching out to help his eldest with a steadying grip on his arm.

Caleb took it upon himself to rouse Sam. The thought that John had _intentionally_ helped Dean just so Caleb would have the dreaded task of getting the famously hard-to-wake 12-year-old up and moving flashed through his mind and momentarily added to his John-inspired anger, but just as quickly as it had come, it vanished. He knew John would never use the boys like that.

"Sam," Caleb said, leaning into the car and tapping the sleeping tween's good knee. "Hey, Sam. Wake up. We're at the roach motel and you definitely don't wanna miss it." He only added that part because Dean and John were making their way slowly toward the room and were (hopefully) out of earshot.

"Come on, Chunk," he goaded, poking at Sam's stomach when there was absolutely no response. "Time to turn on the light switch."

Sam's mouth fell open and a short, snorting snore sounded.

"Dude. You're mocking me in your _sleep._ That's not cool." Rummaging through the mess of empty water bottles, used shooting targets, several dirty t-shirts, and a lone, muddy sock that he found sticking out of a crumpled McDonald's bag, Caleb finally came up with something usable.

"Sammy," he called in a sing-song voice. He braced himself with one arm hooked over the front seat, his shin resting against the door frame, and with his other arm, swung the string of garlic cloves so that they knocked lightly against the side of Sam's head. "Wake up, little Sammykins." If bringing out the hated 'Sammy' and then morphing it into something a ninety-year-old Grandma with doilies all over her living room would use didn't work on him, nothing would.

The garlic clunked against Sam's head again and this time, he woke up.

"Knock it off," he growled, his voice sleep-slurred. He frowned at Caleb and grabbed the garlic cloves before they hit him a third time, yanking them away from the older man. "And it's _SAM_."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You'll always be _Sammy_ to me, little Winchester," Caleb said with a smirk as he carefully helped Sam sit up. He tried to make it as easy and pain free for the kid as possible.

"It's three letters! Why is that so difficult for everyone?" Sam snapped in annoyance. He winced and yelped out loud as Caleb slid him to the edge of the seat. Sam shoved the helping hands away. "I can get out myself!"

And then he promptly proceeded to faceplant forward. Well, he would have faceplanted if Caleb hadn't been standing there. Instead of hitting pavement, he smashed his nose into Caleb's chest before the older hunter caught him.

"You all right, there?" he asked worriedly.

"I'd be _fine_ if you didn't have such pointy ribs," Sam grumbled, rubbing at his sore nose. He tried to shimmy forward again, but the pain was too much and he closed his eyes, taking deep breaths while he tried to will the ache in his back and hips away. This time, Caleb was ready for it and never released his hold on the twelve-year-old.

"That's it. You're okay, kiddo, breathe through it," Caleb said with sympathy. Before Sam knew what happened, Murphy had swept him up like a baby and was carrying him into the hotel room, much to Sam's chagrin.

He completely forgot his annoyance when he saw Dean already lying on one of the beds, eyes closed, the sling strapped across his torso rising and falling sharply, in sync with his heaving chest.

Sam always got the same horrible sinking feeling in the bottom of his stomach when he knew Dean was having trouble breathing; it had been there for as long as he could remember. The feeling had often woken him from a deep sleep in the middle of the night. He'd startle awake with the awful feeling of dread to find Dean sitting up in bed clutching his chest, coughing and wheezing, frantically trying to breathe. Sam had never told anybody about this 'gut feeling' thing because he didn't quite understand it himself.

Caleb deposited him carefully beside his brother and pulled the questionably clean blankets up over the two.

"Is he okay?" Sam asked worriedly. Dean's wheezy breath was loud in the silence of the small room and his brother had yet to say anything to him.

"He's gonna be fine," John said as he unlaced his boots and kicked them off. He'd brought his and the boys' duffel bags in while he'd helped Dean in, and now he dug through his eldest's bag until he found his son's spare inhaler; the one in Dean's jeans pocket had turned out to be empty. Moving to the bed, he perched on the edge of the mattress and gently shook Dean's shoulder. The sixteen-year-old's eyes immediately popped open; he obviously hadn't been asleep, which worried Sam more. "Here, kiddo."

Dean struggled to a sitting position and took the inhaler without a word. It didn't go unnoticed by anyone that he almost greedily sucked down the medicine before returning the inhaler to his father.

"How's your arm? Need more pain pills?" John questioned, setting the inhaler on the grimy night stand. He had made sure that he had all the medication both boys needed. He would never have left the hospital otherwise, and thanks to Caleb, they now had a small pharmacy in the trunk of the Impala.

"I'm good," Dean predictably answered, using his good hand to rub against the sling at his elbow. It felt like his stitches were burning under his cast.

"Really?" his dad asked doubtfully. Dean managed a small grin.

"Yeah, Dad. I'm fine. Still feel a bit loopy from the last dose. I'm just really tired."

"Okay, then." John stood up. "What about you, Sammy? You feelin' okay?"

"It's _Sam,_" he bristled and John sighed. "Yeah, I'm okay, but my back hurts."

That tugged at John's heart. "I know, buddy. It's time for your painkillers, anyway," he said, glancing at his watch before rummaging through his own duffel and riffling through a white paper bag before pulling out a small, orange bottle. He checked the label before shaking out two large, white pills and then handed them to his youngest.

Caleb returned from the bathroom with a glass of water and handed it to Sam.

"Thanks," Sam grumbled as he swallowed the pills.

"This, too, son. It's a muscle relaxant," John said, handing him another pill. "Should help you relax and get some sleep."

Sam nodded and took the pill, almost ramming it down his throat. He just wanted the dull ache in his lower back to stop.

John was putting the pills back into the bag when he glanced at the bottle of Vicodin, then over at his eldest.

Dean's eyes were closed again, but his body was held stiff. John's fatherly instincts told him that his son was in pain, whether the sixteen-year-old would admit it or not. Sighing, he shook out a pill and leaned over, nudging the teen's jean-clad leg. He got a 'whitzit' and a scowl as Dean forced his eyes open to glance at his father. "I want you to take this, Dean. You'll be able to sleep better." Picking up the half-empty glass of water that Sam had set back down on the bedside table, he handed the pill to Dean, watched him throw it in his mouth, and then handed him the glass. Dean polished off all of the water before coughing and closing his eyes again.

"Okay, both of you should be able to rest," John said, rubbing his eyes.

Standing up, he looked at his sons; they were both almost asleep already.

"Good. Everybody, get some sleep. We're heading out first thing in the morning," John ordered, heading to the empty bed.

"John, it's three in the morning! The boys need more than a couple hours rest," Caleb protested from his spot by the small table. He'd foolishly set a spare hunting knife down on its linoleum top before he realized that it was sticky. He'd grabbed a Kleenex from the box and had tried to wipe the tacky mystery gunk from the gleaming knife, but the tissue just tore and stuck to the substance. When John announced their departure time, though, he immediately forgot about the knife.

"Caleb," John warned, his brows coming together in a frown.

"No, you're right," Caleb said hurriedly, heading off the imminent explosion. "You're right. Definitely a good idea to hit the road. Where you go, I follow, my captain."

John glared at him, but slid into the bed, rolled over to face the wall and was asleep in seconds.

"Asshole," Caleb muttered under his breath.

He sighed and headed over to the bed that Sam and Dean were sharing. No way was he going to sleep on that floor and pick up a flesh-eating disease. The boys were asleep, or at least looked asleep, and Dean had already thrown his uninjured arm out so that his hand was brushing against his brother's side. Caleb shook his head and grinned. The two boys had been forced to share a bed for so long that unless they were physically touching in some way, the two were restless. He tried not to think about the depressing reason for their anxious need for each other because then he'd be off and running on another John-you're-an-asshole kick.

There was a small, open space on the edge of the bed and Caleb gratefully took advantage of it, carefully balancing himself so he didn't topple off the bed onto the grungy carpet. Like the Winchesters, he was asleep almost instantaneously.

-o-o-o-o-

"Caleb!"

Caleb rolled his head further into the pillow as he tried to escape the annoying hiss in his ear.

"Caleb!" This time a firm shake of his arm accompanied the fervent whisper and his brain finally kicked into gear as he realized it was Sam. He instantly saw that John was still in his own bed, asleep.

"Whatizit, Sammy?" he asked, rolling over.

"I think Dean's sick," Sam whispered, ignoring the hated nickname in favor of getting his brother help.

Caleb sat up and looked over Sam's pudgy frame to Dean. All he could see in the dark was the lump of his body under the blankets, but he could hear the soft whistle that Dean's breath was making. Not that he wasn't used to hearing Dean wheeze during the night - he'd grown used to that a long time ago. It was the fact that every now and then the teen let out a pained groan that scared him.

"He's really hot," Sam informed him, still whispering. "And sweaty."

Caleb frowned and leaned over Sam, placing his hand on the side of Dean's face since the teenager was facing away from them.

"Aw, crap," Caleb mumbled when he felt the heat coming from Dean's damp skin.

Rolling off the bed, he immediately slid his feet into his boots and walked around the bed.

"Hey, Dean," he said softly. "Wake up."

Dean blinked up at him. "Hmm?"

"You're burnin' up, dude," Caleb said, taking in the kid's glazed eyes. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and his cheeks looked flushed. "How d'you feel?"

"Okay," he croaked. "M' arm hurts. S' kinda throbbin'."

"Let's get you a drink of water," Caleb said. This place probably had rust chunks in the water and there was no way he was subjecting either of the boys to it, especially when their health was already in question.

"What's wrong?" John's gruff voice cut through the quiet that Caleb and Sam had been working so hard to maintain.

"Nothin'," Dean answered as he tried to sit up. Caleb rolled his eyes at the teen's stubbornness and easily pushed him back down with a palm to his chest.

"No, it's not nothin'," Caleb snapped at John. "Dean's sick. He's got a fever."

Caleb leaned across the bed and lifted John's duffel. He produced a bottle of Tylenol a few seconds later, shook out two, and handed them to Dean along with a bottle of water.

"Well?" he said when he saw Dean's hesitation to take them. "They're not gonna dance their way down your throat. Take them!"

"It's OK, Dean," John said. "Take them."

By the time the sixteen-year-old had swallowed them, John was standing beside the bed.

He laid his hand on Dean's forehead and frowned. He went to the duffel Caleb had just taken the Tylenol from and dug around until he found Dean's antibiotics. He inwardly cursed himself; he should have been making sure his son was taking them at the correct times. He hadn't had any since before they left the hospital.

"Take these, too, kiddo," he said and his son complied, swallowing the pills lethargically. John could tell that just keeping his eyes open was a real effort for Dean. He rummaged through what could now be safely known as the medical duffel and produced a thermometer, the new one Caleb had taken from the hospital, along with some other stuff that he knew would come in handy.

Dean didn't so much as flinch when his dad assaulted his ear with the thermometer and after a second, it bleeped. John groaned at the reading on the small digital window.

"What is it?" Caleb asked worriedly.

John ran a hand through his hair. "103.1." This was not good, not good at all. John knew he'd have to get Dean's temperature down. His eldest had never been good with fevers, suffering from febrile convulsions when he got sick as a toddler. Every time he had a fever, it struck a deep-rooted fear in John.

"Get your stuff," John said, looking at Caleb. "We need to go back,"

"What?" Caleb was dumbstruck. "But what about Nathan? The CPS? What if they try to take them away?"

Before John could answer, Sam's panicked voice filled the room.

"Dad!"

John's heart almost stopped when his eyes landed on his sons. Sam was screaming frantically at his brother's side as Dean lay poker straight, his body rigid and his limbs thrashing around wildly as his body convulsed. John rushed to his side as Dean's eyes rolled back. Blood and spittle trickled from the side of his mouth and a strangled, choking noise came from the back of his throat as his body spasmed uncontrollably.

"Jesus, he's seizing," John shouted, doing his best to get Dean onto his side to try to prevent him from choking, but it wasn't that easy with the teen's arm casted and strapped snugly to his chest. "Caleb, 911 - NOW!"

Caleb scrambled to the bedside table for the phone.

A seizure. Dean was having a seizure because his fever had risen too high.

Sam could do nothing but watch as Dean continued to seize and his dad tried frantically to help him. All of a sudden it stopped. His body went limp. John sighed in relief until he took a good look at his son's face and saw the sickly blue around Dean's mouth and lips.

"Oh no, no no no, don't you dare Dean, NO!" John barked, flipping the teen over onto his back and tilting his head to help clear his airway. Caleb was shouting frantically into the phone.

"Caleb, he's stopped breathing!" John panicked, leaning forward to administer two quick rescue breaths before reaching for his son's pulse. At least it was there - it was sluggish, but there.

At hearing John's panicked cry and watching the hunter breathe for his son, Caleb dropped the phone and ran to their side.

Sam found himself feeling helpless and started a mantra in his head. _Please let him be okay, please let him be okay, please let him be okay, please let him be okay._

How many times was he going to have to go through this? How many times was he going to have to watch his brother fight for his life?

TBC...


	11. AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hi Guys,

I thought I better write this and let you all know that I'm still alive! I know it's been so long since I updated. I'm still in hospital at the minute, but I'm doing a lot better. I'm having another surgery very soon. I just wanted you all to know that I HAVE NOT given up on this. It will get completed. I have tons of plans for the bricks verse and there's a lot of parts already written. I'm working on it whenever I can. I have parts completed but nothings in order or finished yet. I want to thank all of you who have e-mailed me with your support and stuff, your all awesome. I'm half way through the next chapter and once it's been to my beta I'll post as soon as. Hope you all stick with me and Thanks again for your patience.

Laura.

xxx


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